Fallout New Vegas: The Courier's Path
by Scambo
Summary: Update: Chapter 14: Ghost Town Gunfight. Jack recounts the events that brought him to the Prison to Ranger Jackson. The Courier and Sunny Smiles share an 'intimate' morning. A routine Checkup with Doc Mitchell goes south, but above all, the Powder Gangers finally come for Goodsprings.
1. Prologue

PROLOGUE: Snake Eyes

_ War...War never changes...From civilization's humble beginnings all the way to its fiery end, war has always been an ever constant evil, the grim shadow cast by man's insatiable thirst for knowledge. October 23rd, 2077. The Long Night, when the globe erupted in a cleansing fire that purged most of humanity from the Earth's surface. Even two-hundred years after the world was bathed in nuclear fire there are battle lines being drawn...The New California Republic maintains its tenous hold on the Hoover Dam and the areas surrounding the New Vegas Strip, as Caesar and his Legion lick their wounds and prepare to finish what they started four years ago, all the while the mysterious mastermind and architecht of New Vegas Mr. House watches silently from his ivory tower. Waiting. Plotting. But even the man who stood defiant as the world around him evaporated in a nuclear cloud now finds himself powerless, forced to entrust his future and the futures of all who call New Vegas home to one man, a wild card in a loaded deck. It is his destiny, his rotten luck, to tip the scales in the power struggle for all of New Vegas. He alone will decide the fate of all. All the players have arrived at the table, Mr. House, The Legion and the NCR, each side pushing all their chips into the middle as the cards are dealt. With too much to lose and everything to gain, they wait, cards held in a death grip, eyes primed for the wild card that will bring them the victory they crave...or take them out of the game once and for all. The chips are down, the battlelines drawn and the players in their positions, the game begins and the hands are dealt. And when in a place like New Vegas, where the odds are always unclear, only one thing is certain... _

Pain_..._That was the first thing to flash through the mind of the man now awakening in the dirt and sand where he had been discarded just over an hour ago. His head felt as though it were attempting to split itself open, his throat was as dry and parched as the desert he had crossed to reach this point and the rest of his body was weary and beaten. He licked his dry, bloodied lips and fought for clarity. Puffy, swollen eyes opened to reveal his hands, bound tightly before him. He flexed and strained against his bonds, searching for even the most minute slack or weakness. There was none. Twilight hung in deep pools of darkness, the moon hung suspended in a clear night sky, leering down at the grisly scene below. A weak battery lamp cast its dim light upon three men standing before their captive. Two of them were garbed in rough leathers, worn and coated with dust from the desert with a helmet wearing skull leering out from their backs. _Great Khans...I thought the NCR took care of these clowns at Bitter Springs.._. Suddenly, a tall man with dark skin and a handle bar moustache edged his way into the light, speaking in short, frustrated breaths.

"You got what you were after, now pay up!" Another figure moved forward out of the shadows and into the weak light cast by the lamp, this one wearing a checkered suit and slacks, pristine despite what had to be a long trek through the Mojave. From the edge of his vision, the prisoner could just make out another of his captors moving about, slinging something over his shoulder. As he did so, the man moved into the light and the prisoner realized that he was digging a hole, roughly six feet by three.. Blinking, he realized that it was a grave. _His_ grave. Panicking, the prisoner frantically peered about his surroundings. It was barren, an open patch of dirt and with what little moonlight penetrated the clouds the prisoner could make out battered wooden crosses over mounds of dirt. They were in a graveyard.

"You're grindin' the reigns, pally." Said the man in the checkered suit angrily. He spoke in a sharp, lilting tone. _This guy sounds different than his thugs...New Vegas, maybe?_

"Guess whos' wakin' up over here?" One of them called, a tall man wearing a head band below long spikes of orange hair running the length of his scalp. Groaning, the prisoner struggled against his bonds once again before looking up to see that the three men had gathered before him. The one in the checkered suit stepped forward, the weak light finally revealing a handsome, sun and wind burnt face with an eleagant coif and black, hard eyes. Shooting his prisoner an even look, he took a long drag off of a cigarette before tossing it to the ground and grinding it out with his heel.

"Time to cash out." Checkered Suit said, stepping towards his captive. Handlebar Stache scowled and rolled his eyes.

"Will you get it over with?" Said the Khan, eyes darting from their prisoner to Checkered Suit and back before the other man snapped up a hand.

"Maybe you Khans kill without looking people in the face, but I ain't a fink, dig?" Said Checkered Suit, before turning to face his captive, free hand digging removing what appeared to be a large, silver colored poker chip.

_Wait...Thats the package I was supposed to deliver! But why are they gonna fuckin' bury me over a fake casino chip?!_ Checkered Suit held the chip up and turned it over in his hand for a moment in the weak light, his eyes hungry and satisfied before turning back to his captive.

"You've made your last delivery kid. I'm sorry you got twisted up in this scene." He said, his voice sympathetic and heavy. The hand holding the chip slid back into his lapel before returning once more, this time holding a gaudy nine-millimeter pistol with silver and gold in-lays. He held it at waist level for a moment, the barrel pointed at the ground.

_So this is it huh? Dunno what I was expecting but this...maybe its all I deserve, but I wanted to make it right somehow...The bank I got from this last job would've been enough...Not enough to make up for what happened but maybe a start..._

"From where your kneeling, this must seem like an eighteen-karat run 'a bad luck. Truth is..." He said, raising the gun and extending his arm. The gun's barrel shone menacingly in the wane moonlight in as it rose level with the prisoner's head.

"This game was rigged from the start." The moment froze, suspended in time. Checkered suit blinked. Orange mohawk jittered about, his mouth agape while handle bar stache crossed his arms and watched with grim acceptance. The prisoner squeezed his eyes shut, his mouth working to speak in anything just over a hoarse whisper.

"Do it then..." Checkered Suit blinked before cocking back the hammer...and pulling the trigger. The gun muzzle flashed and the prisoner slumped to the ground. Checkered Suit slid the pistol back into it's holster beneath his jacket's lapel before turning to gaze once more at the Platinum Chip held tightly now in his free hand. He glanced at the body. The Courier's death was unfortunate, but he couldn't have the man going and running his mouth somewhere, tipping off New Vegas' omnipotent founder and guardian to his plans. _No_, he thought as the Khans hefted up the body,_ the Old Man won't see whats coming until its too late_. As the Khans tossed the body into the grave and began the grim task of filling the empty plot, the man in the checkered suit gazed towards the distant lights of the Strip shining in the darkness, a glittering oasis of pleasure in the otherwise lethal and barren desert. And soon, it would be his. The only loose end was at the bottom of a hole being filled by the Khans.

He barked an order at the Khans and after a moment, they snuffed out the light and left. Off in the distance, something stirred. It glided over the rough and uneven desert terrain with ease, bouncing along on one wheel slowly moving quietly so as to keep its presence undetected. Once it was sure that the men were gone on their way, full operating measures came online. Slowly, lights danced about the bulky metal frame to reveal the word _Securitron_ emblazoned on the chest of a large, man shaped robot, standing roughly 6 feet tall with a monitor set in the upper torso, large metallic arms ending in strong titanium grip-claws and ending with a large, off-road wheel set at its base. The monitor flickered once or twice before the image of a smiling cowboy smoking a cigarette appeared. The robot puttered along the trail that lead from the desert up into the graveyard on the hill, sensors prepped and searching for any sign that the men were coming back. There were none. Slowly, the robot entered the graveyard and set about searching for the fresh grave that had just been filled.

As it searched, its internal arithmatic unit had set about calculating the odds of survival for the man who had just moments ago been cut down. They weren't looking good. Suddenly, something set off the Securitron's heat sensor, a slightly higher than average reading from beneath a nearby grave. The robot moved with little urgency, rolling slowly until coming to the edge of the dirt mound where the prisoner had been buried not an thirty minutes ago. It stood motionless for a moment, compiling data before sending it away in a docket. To where, and why never occured to the machine. Although ruled by a processor and capable of making decisions for itself, the Securitron pondered on the curious 'urges' it experienced until an incoming transmission took precedence. After several micro-seconds, the data docket had been neatly downloaded, analyzed and saved before closing the connection. The robot suddenly dipped down and gripped a fistful of dirt in its massive claw. For reasons unbeknownst to it, the robot was now feeling a compelling urge to dig. Then, to carry to a place not far away, and then to deposit one of the many bags of caps in his possession. For what and when would become clear, but for now, it had its urges and although they didn't make much sense, the Securitron knew nothing else than to follow it's impulses. In a lilting mechanical voice tinged with a western-esque accent, the Securitron spoke.

"Now you just hold on fella, your 'ol pal Victor is a'gonna get you to some help!" Miles away, from the towering fortress that was the Lucky 38, Mr. House watched the feed of his Securitron beginning its work with moderated frustration. It had been so close! Another day, and the chip would have been in hand and then the final phases of his plans would've fallen into place. But no, in one fell swoop, the man in the Checkered Suit had spoiled two centuries of planning, of _waiting._ He couldn't _possibly_ know what the chip was for, could he? This thought gave Mr. House pause, and as he considered this he switched to a feed of one of the cameras mounted on his casino's roof and looked down upon the New Vegas Strip. His creation. His Paradise. He was too close now to let it all slip through his fingers. He still had a few aces up his sleeve... One: that Benny was under the impression that no one knew of his treachery, least of all the man pulling the strings back home, and two: that the man he had just put in the earth was going to stay there._.._Mr. House thought for a moment.

Perhaps this Courier could be of use; life had taught the Casino mogul that revenge was an excellent motivator and now that Benny had proved himself untrustworthy he would be needing an agent in the world, someone he could entrust delicate tasks to. Such as retrieving the Platinum Chip. Mr. House smiled as the possibilities clicked together, his plans not derailed, but merely delayed. As he gazed out into the barren stretch of desert that surrounded the Las Vegas Strip, he thought of the change that he would bring to this ravaged world, the beginning of a new era. _His_ era...

In a squat, single story house off the main road an elderly man was setting himself in with a cup of tea on the battered sofa in his living room. Sleep was long in coming for him these days and more often than not he would find himself awakening in the small hours of the morning, unable to drift back off. Running a hand over his bald head, he sat back into the couch and sipped deeply from his tea cup. Outside, the wind howled against the weathered walls of his house, banging the shutters about and whistling through the cracks in the boards. Adding his sigh to that of his home's, he took another gulp of his tea. Acrid, tasteless stuff brewed from the rough leaves of some tough desert plant, but it beat hot water or what passed for coffee in Goodsprings. Staring out the window, into the unbroken expanse of darkness that was the Mojave in twilight, he found his thoughts drifting as they were wont to do when there was no pressing business to be attended to. Granted, his life as a frontier Doctor and Goodspring's only physician left him little time for absent thought and wonderings. Perhaps that was why he would find himself waking at this ungodly hour, his mind rousing the body so it could run free and unchecked before the coming day's trials could force away his wild flights of fancy. Closing his eyes, he could still almost hear his wife calling after him.

"_Mitch? Where'd you go? Its three o'clock in the mornin, what in God's name are you doing up? We're not kids anymore, runnin' all over God's creation, a woman my age needs her rest so quit complaining and come back to bed so I can get some sleep!"_ Doc Mitchell laughed and grinned to himself despite the sparse tears that began welling at the bottom of his eyes. He had made his peace with her passing long ago, but fond memories and old habits seemed to creep into his thoughts whenever they could. In better times he would awaken in the grey hours just before dawn to see that she had risen some time before. He always knew where she would be, though; she loved to sit and watch from the porch as the sun climbed over the horizon. She said it gave her hope, the fact that no matter what, there would always be another tomorrow, always be another sunrise. With a grimace, he downed the rest of his tea and set the chipped mug down on the table in the room's center.

The Doctor sighed and stared outside, into the unbroken twilight. He wasn't sure how many more sunrises his old heart could take. Or wanted to, for that matter. He had lived the life he wanted before coming to his retirement in Goodsprings, and now, in his winter years, he knew that there were no more adventures waiting for him. He had fought to give pulse to a dying world, loved with a passion and did what good he could for those within reach. It was for the young and brash to decide the future now, he thought, eyes staring out the battered window. He could see a faint trace of movement on the path leading to his home from the road. Rising, he hefted an old break-action shotgun and snapped it open. It was loaded. Odds were that it was just a gecko looking for food, but he wasn't taking any chances. Creeping to the door, Doc Mitchell thumbed the shotgun's safety off and pressed his ear to the door. He could hear movement outside, but something was off about the sound, like rather than walking whatever it was was dragging itself along. Or rolling. Suddenly, the porch stairs creaked with use causing the aged doctor to back hurriedly away from the door and snap the shotgun up to his shoulder, both hammers cocked and ready to turn whatever stepped through the door into a fine, red mist. Several tense seconds passed in thunderous silence as Doc Mitchell faced down the door, palms sweating and heart pounding when a familiar voice called out and shattered the tension.

" Hey Doc! You in?!" Came Victor's artificial cowboy voice. The Doctor was stunned.

"Victor?! Is that you? What is it that it can't wait 'till-" With a splitting crack the aged door shattered off it's hinges and fell in chunks on the floor as Victor rolled hurriedly inside, canvas wrapped 'package' hefted easily by its right arm. Startled, the good doctor only narrowly fought down the urge to empty both barrels into the robot

The blank cowboy face just stared back as the securitron puttered inside, past the shaken man before turning down a corridor and vanishing into a darkened room. The doctor followed close after the robot, switching on the overhead lighting as he entered. The operating room sprang into illumination as the Securitron lay its grisly package out on the steel table at the room's center. The elderly man propped his weapon up against a desk in the room's far corner before tugging a pair of latex gloves on and approaching the operating table.

"Before I start, you gonna tell me what this is all 'bout,Victor?" The Doctor said, delicately unraveling the burlap the body was wrapped in. What he saw once it fell away was stomach churning, but nothing life as a wasteland physician hadn't shown him already; there was a single bullet hole in the victim's forehead with an exit wound reflected on the back of the head. The caliber of the gun that had shot him had to have been relatively small, probably a nine millimeter judging by the wound, and by the placement of the entry and exit wounds made it clear to the Doctor that the shot had been fired at a downward angle, as though the man now laying before had been forced to his knees then killed. _Execution style._ A quick glance at the 'patient's' wrists showed ligature marks, clear, raw and still bloodied. The Doctor thought, hands gently and skillfully probing and searching the body before him. He turned to face the robot which had edged up along-side the Doctor while he rendered his diagnosis, grinning cowboy face flickering several times before solidifying and coming into clarity. So Doc, what'cha think? Can you sav'im?" The robot drawled, its instruments suddenly coming to life in a blur of motion and blinking lights. The Doctor blinked and glanced back at the man on the slab.

"I dunno Victor, he's in pretty rough shape. The bullet did some pretty serious damage on the way through, nothin' that can't be fixed but damned if it didn't do some pretty serious damage! And another thing Vic; who is this guy? This wasn't the Fiends or some Raider gang, someone wanted this guy dead for more than just what was in his pockets. So tell me Vic, who is this?" The Robot went silent, the cowboy face once more flickering before vanishing and being replaced by large, blocky words that read; 'Signal Input'. After several seconds, the robot began to speak, but rather than the lilting, friendly drawl of Victor, the speakers instead blurted out a more..._human_ voice, this one sharp and direct, filled with power and expectation.

"Doctor Mitchell, who this man is will become evident enough in due time, but for now I suggest you see to your patient. This," The Robot said, digging a hooked claw into one of it's compartments, "Ought to cover your fee." The Securitron hauled a bag filled with several large rows of caps and tossed it almost haphazardly atop the Doctor's desk before puttering towards the door. Doctor Mitchell huffed and blew out his moustache, glancing from the money atop his desk, to the dying man on the slab and finally to the Robot slowly making its way out of his home. For a brief moment, he considered stopping the Securitron and demanding the truth but thought better of it and returned to his new patient.

Gazing at the comatose form before him, he muttered beneath his breath.

"Who wanted you dead bad'nuff to go through all the trouble of tyin' y'up, draggin' you through the desert and droppin' ya in a hole?"

The man beneath the sheet bleeding from the hole in his head said nothing. Doc Mitchell sighed and cast a glance at the securitron as it trundled out of the threshold and back out into the desert. Doc Mitchell frowned as he slipped a sterile face-mask about his features before activating the Auto-Doc at the surgical table's side. As the doctor leaned in to begin working, he couldn't help but glance up and out the broken door one more time. Darkness still hung heavy over the Mojave, but at the edge of sight, just creeping over the horizon was the pale light of the coming day, herald of the plucky orange ball just that would in a few hours time crest the horizon, starting a new day despite everything that had happened, today, last night, a hundred years ago, it would still rise. Sharpening his eyes, the doctor took a scalpel in hand, threw back the bloody sheet lain over the man and set to work...

_War...It never changes..._


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Bad Times in Good-springs**

Sunny-Smiles, Goodspring's official unofficial sheriff and peace keeper scowled around her beer as the shady looking men departed the Prospector Saloon. From where she sat in the tattered,dingy booth seat in the corner of the room she could see the bar and front door clearly and it wasn't until the door shut behind the last of them that she let the 9 millimeter slip from her grasp back to the hollowed out cubby beneath the seat's cushion. A quick glance at the clock mounted on the wall above the bar told her that it was close to 3 in the morning now, far past the Saloon's usual closing time. She blew out a nervous breathe before rising and walking to the end of the hall where the corridor turned into a small bend and continued on to the area behind the bar, but Sunny stopped in the turn to face a flimsy looking wooden door. It was rattling, and a low whimper eminated from within. Sighing, Sunny opened the door and stared down into the eyes of Cheyenne, her faithful pet and deputy sheriff for going on 8 years now. Cheyenne was the typical breed of Wasteland dog; a resilient mutt of indecipherable breed. She barked and wagged her tail excitedly as Sunny squatted down and patted the dog's head.

"Aww, I'm sorry I had to lock you up in the closet Cheyenne, but I didn't know if it was gonna get ugly with those Khans or not." Sunny said, rubbing her deputy's chin and casting a nervous glance in the direction of the entrance. Rising, she walked back to the bar, Cheyenne close at heel. The bar was mostly empty now, with the last of the locals clearing out before the Khans and their rude, tackily dressed employer had moved on moments before. At the thought of the fast talking New Vegas man in the checkered suit, Sunny rolled her eyes; it was one thing to be an asshole, but if you're an asshole that good looking you could at least have a little _style_. Trudy stood up behind the bar, her prized pre-war radio clutched tight in her hands.

"God-dammit! That...Dickhead knocked my radio off the counter and now it won't turn on! Oh, that son-of-a-bitch, I've half a mind to go out there and kick his ass!" Sunny smiled as Goodspring's mayor, bar-owner and founder twisted the knobs and dials on the radio fruitlessly and set it back on the counter with a huff. Sunny laughed and set her empty glass on the bar with a clink.

"Just say the word Trudy, we'll go wake up Easy Pete, the settlers n' farmers, get Chet to hand out guns and go get'em an' everything! Shit, might as well take care of Joe Cobb and his buddies while we're at it." The younger woman said sarcastically. Trudy shot her a level gaze before refilling her glass.

"I 'spose you're right." She said, her eyes downcast as she began cleaning an empty glass.

"How much longer you think we can hide'em before those Powder Gangers get tired a'waitin and start blowin' up houses?" Sunny gazed at her own reflection in the window for a moment. She saw a young girl, maybe 19 years of age dressed in leather armor with a knife at her side. Bright red hair fell in messy waves to her shoulders and soft, hazel eyes gazed out from a pretty face. Sunny turned back to face Trudy and answer her question when she caught the deep, thoughful look in the elder woman's eye and decided against it. Trudy was 29, according to Easy Pete, and still in possession of her youth's good looks, though at times she appeared far older than her years; her vibrant brown hair had several grays jutting out in her bangs, dark bags had appeared under her emerald eyes of late, and here, now, Trudy looked an old woman. However, when she set the glass back on the rack, she was looking her usual self again; whatever troubling thoughts cleared from her mind like dust from the glass.

"I dunno Trudy. It probably won't be all that much longer though. A week, maybe two. We could get lucky; they might just get bored and forget about Ringo." Trudy blinked and set her hands on the bar, leaning forward to speak in hushed tones.

"Shhh! Don't say that name so loud; what if Cobb had one of his boys swing by to spy on us? And I don't think they'll just be forgettin' our friend anytime soon; you heard Doc Mitchell, that was Cobb's brother Ringo put in the dirt." Sunny's frown fell into a scowl as she sipped her beer and started gazing once more out into dark desert, seeing her reflection projected out in the desolate wasteland. Trudy spoke but Sunny's attention remained fixated on the window.

"You saw Cobb's eyes, Sunny. Black, and hard and angry...He'd sooner burn this whole town to the ground than forget about that man." Sunny crossed her arms beneath her breasts and pouted for a moment. A glance over at Trudy revealed that she had brandished the .357 revolver she kept tucked into a barglass on a shelf behind the bar. Clearly visible and easy to reach, the revolver was a clear message that the people of Goodsprings were not to be fucked with and though it hadn't been fired in going on three or four years now, she kept it clean and it had been enough to dissuade the thugs from earlier in the night from causing trouble. Now though, Trudy slipped the barrel open. She never kept it loaded but now her free hand dug into a shelf below the bar and suddenly a box of heavy magnum rounds appeared in her hand, nimble fingers digging the rounds out to began slipping them inside the vacant chambers of the revolver until all six chambers were filled. This done, Trudy set the weapon on the bar and poured herself a glass of bourbon. She killed half the glass in one angry gulp and as the older woman grimaced against the burning in her throat Sunny laughed and turned her gaze from the window.

"Take it easy Trudy, we'll pull through. We always have." Trudy opened her mouth to say something when Cheyenne, who up until that moment had been lounging on the floor beside Sunny, leapt to her feat and started barking at the door.. The two women froze and fixed their gaze on the door. Trudy had snapped up the .357 and cocked back the hammer as Sunny bolted over to where her own pistol has hidden beneath the corner booth. Her thoughts raged as deft fingers slipped inside the alcove and hauled out the 9 millimeter handgun and its two accompanying clips. As she thumbed the safety off and turned to face the opening door her mind was ablaze with possibilities.

_Shitshitshit! Is it Cobb? Raiders? The fucking Legion?_ Chambering a round, Sunny vaulted over the bar and crouched down next to Trudy, fixing her aim on the opening door.

"Cheyenne! Shut the fuck up and get over here!" Goodspring's deputy began to growl and back away from the door slowly but never took her eyes from it. The knob began to turn and the two women tensed. The door flung open, but instead of Cobb and his gang it was Victor, his grinning cowboy 'face' set in the TV box leering in from the dark.

"Evenin' Trudy, Sunny." The robot said, rolling inside the bar on the big off-road tire affixed to his base. Sunny relaxed and dropped her weapon, but Trudy still held hers at waist level and scowled as she regarded the Securitron.

"Dammit Victor, you almost gave me a heart-attack!" Sunny shouted as she made her way around the bar.

"So Vic, what brings you here at this hour, you know we're closed for the night, right?" Trudy said, reluctantly setting the loaded revolver back into the bar glass.

"I know ma'am, I'll be out your hair in a jiff, I just need a moment a'your time." Victor said, trundling up to the bar. For a moment, Trudy thought the smiling cowboy face on the screen was going to order a drink. Instead, one of those big claw arms dug into a storage port and brandished a large sack that the robot set on the bar counter. Trudy frowned and regarded the bag for a moment but said nothing. Sunny leaned against the bar and settled her gaze on the robot.

"Whats this about?" The grinning cowboy flickered for a moment before being replaced with the words 'SIGNAL INPUT' in large, blocky letters. When Victor next spoke, it wasn't in the friendly cowboy style drawl that he typically used. Instead, the voice was now something organic at least, but cold and detached. The voice was intelligent, and had the subtle, flat tones of New Vegas.

"Earlier tonight, a man was assualted and shot by the men who visited this saloon. He is currently in the care of Doctor Mitchell, and though it is likely he will survive the process, a full recovery will take some time. When he comes to, nurse him back to health. Miss Smiles, I would like you to ensure that our friend knows how to survive out in the Mojave. Test him for what he knows and teach what he doesn't. This man needs to be able to survive in the wild. Trudy, you are responsible for his room and board. Keep him fed, and comfortable for his stay in Goodsprings. "

Sunny stared blankly at the robot for a moment before Trudy settled her fists on hips and shot the Securitron an even glare.

"And what makes you think we'll do all that Vic?" The robot hummed for a moment before responding.

"There are two-thousand caps in that bag to do with as you please. All I ask is that you aid the man in Doctor Mitchell's care when he comes to. I doubt he will remain in your town for long after his recovery. Until and after he does depart, if anyone, especially anyone from out of town asks about this man or about what happened this night, you will tell them that he died and was buried in the cemetery." With that, the robot reversed out of the bar and went trundling off into the night. Trudy called after it with shouted questions but the Securitron gave no indication it heard and before long had disappeared into the twilight. Sunny opened the bag and looked inside to see that the robot had been truthful; there at the bottom of the sack, tucked into 20, hundred-cap rolls was the money. Gasping, Trudy reached down and picked up a roll. Letting out a held breath Sunny rose and waved a dismissive gesture over the sack.

"Well how'bout that. What the hell is going on here? A week ago Goodsprings was quiet and peaceful and now it seems like troubles moved in next door!" Trudy, still gazing absently at the cap roll in her hand spoke somberly.

"Fuck if I know Sunny. Fuck if I know." Sunny stood and stretched before walking back to the corner booth and slipping her handgun back inside it's niche.

"I think I'm gonna go get some shut-eye. You need help lockin' up?" Trudy, who was setting the sack inside of the safe beneath the bar's floor-boards shook her head.

"Thank you, but I've got it darlin'. You go on home and I'll see you tomorrow. We'll...try to get this whole mess sorted out in the daylight." Sunny flashed a weak smile before waving and walking out into the twilight, Cheyenne close at heel. Alone, Trudy shut and covered the sack before rising and staring into her bourbon for a moment.

"How'd I get dragged into this mess..." She muttered into her glass before draining it of its contents. Sighing, she swept up the bar and couldn't help but let her gaze drift to the revolver in the bar glass. Finished, Trudy locked up the bar- but slipped the revolver into a holster strapped to her thigh beneath the frill's of her dress. As she walked out into the inky darkness of the desert twilight, she felt her hand stroking the grip. It gave her some small comfort on the lonely walk to her house, a mere hundred yards from the bar but in the dark of night it felt more like a mile to Trudy as she picked her way around ditches and pot-holes. Finally, mercifully, the battered frame of her Good-Spring's home came into view and it took Trudy all she had to resist the urge to bolt up those steps and into her house. When the door clicked shut behind her, she rose and walked to her bedroom where she undressed quickly and set into her blankets. Whoever had lived there before the war had left behind a treasure trove of old, battered furniture that was at one point two hundred years ago quite posh. The king sized bed in the bedroom was one such thing. It was lonely, to have such a big bed all for oneself. But tonight in particular Trudy longed for a comforting touch, the warmth of another body against her own as she slipped off to sleep. Sighing, she settled the revolver and thigh-holster on her bed side table and drifted off to heavy, dreamless sleep.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Needs**

The midday sun was shining brightly as Doc Mitchell came walking out of his home. He shaded his eyes against the harsh light as he descended the battered porch stairs and set his feet in the sun baked dirt of the Mojave. Setting his hands in pockets, the Doctor walked through Good-Springs to the Prospector Saloon. He shot the breeze for a time on the front stoop with Easy Pete, the town's other relic before slipping inside the Saloon. The drop in temperature that greeted him was fantastic and the doctor was quite happy to have the sun off of his bald scalp. Sunny was in her usual spot, tucked away in the corner booth, a beer bottle with a faded lable tight in hand. She flashed a smile and waved as the doctor entered the saloon which he returned gladly; Sunny was a frequent patient, and one he had taken a liking to. She reminded him of his wife; bright, positive, always looking forward to that next sunrise. Settling atop a bar stool the doctor leaned against the bar and waited for Trudy to show up. And show up she did, her prized, Old-World radio tight in grip. She wore a deep frown as she turned the thing over in her hands, turning dials and knobs fruitlessly.

"Mornin' Trudy. That ol' radio givin' you troubles again?"

"Ugh, I wish; one'a them Khans knocked it off the bar last night an' I can't get it workin' again. Fuckin' assholes, I suppose it'd be too much to hope they ain't much more than Cazador shit by now. " Doc Mitchell set forty caps on the counter and shot Trudy an even smile.

"I'd like two bottles ah' your best Trudy; One for me, and the other I need to clean off my tools. Had to damn near bring this poor fella' back from the dead in the small hours of the morning!" Trudy and Sunny spared a glance at one another before Trudy found her gaze flitting to the safe beneath her feet, Victor's cryptic words from the night before haunting her thoughts.

"Really now? An who would that be? Nobody I know, right?" Trudy asked as she dusted off two bottles of whiskey tucked beneath thebar. The Doctor shot Trudy a wink as she set the two dusty brown bottles with corked tops before him.

"No, he's an' outta towner. Looks to be a Courier for the Mojave Express, if his badge is genuine that is. Got a NCR paystub too, this one got a name on it though; Jackson Derricks. Until he pulls through thats about the sum of what I know about the guy-well, other than what his brain looks like."

Trudy sputtered around the glass of water in her hand and set it down on the bar.

"Wait...What exactly happened to this guy? I mean, whats he healin' from?" Doc Mitchell shot Trudy a wary glance, but the saloon was mostly empty at this time of day, and he trusted her and Sunny so he felt no reason not to speak.

"Listen, Vic told me to keep this under my hat, but this is too weird. He comes bursting through my front door at 3 in the mornin', carryin' little more than a warm body in a burlap wrap. This guy...he wasn't just killed; he was _executed_, single shot to the head, close range. Guessin' by the wound, it looked like he was on his knees when it happened. Poor bastard." Said Doc Mitchell before yanking free a bottle's cork and knocking back a sip of the hooch on the counter. Trudy felt a chill run up her spine as she thought about her late night visit from Victor the night before. It all felt so wrong. Nothing like this had ever come to Good-Springs before. In the past, it was just the occasional raider or gecko attacks but that was all that would disturb the dusty old town of Good-Springs. Now they had Powder-Gangers, wounded merchants and murdered men loitering about.

"Wait, you mean Victor brought him to you?" She said, the memory of the securitron's visit the night before flashing through her mind. She hadn't touched the caps the robot had given her yet, just settled them in the little floor safe beneath the baseboards. It was so bizarre; Victor had never much helped _anybody_ during the years since he'd moved into the dingy shack on the edge of town and yet here he was, coughing up serious caps and dragging some poor soul from an early grave to save his life.. The question was, for what? Who was this Courier that someone wanted dead badly enough to bury and someone else wanted alive enough to shill out some that kinda cash?

"Yeah, thats right; bastard came bursting through the door in the small hours of the mornin', carryin' this sack on his shoulder. Dropped the poor bastard off on the surgery table and of all things, he hands me a grand right there in the operating room and just leaves like he stopped by to shoot the shit! An' if that just ain't the damndest...uhh, Trudy? Hon? You alright?" Trudy's head snapped up, torn from her thoughts be the mention of her name.

"Hmm? Yeah, I'm fine Doc. Just had a bit of a long night, thats all."

Blowingout an exaspherated breath she returned to toying with her radio.

"So who is this guy anyway?" She asked, hands absently attempting to pull open a rusted hatch on the radio's underside.

"What makes him so special?" Doc Mitchell laughed around the lip of his bottle at Trudy's question and after excess liquor from his moustache shot her a grin.

"Hell if I know. Only thing he had on'em when Vic brought'em in was his Mojave Express Courier badge and an NCR paystub. That was denied." Trudy blinked.

"So what, is he some kind of spy or something?" Asked the bar tender, free hand once more absently caressing the hilt of the revolver at her hip. The Doctor smiled, but said nothing at first, merely bringing the whiskey bottle to his lips once again.

"Could be. What I'm wonderin' is whats Victor's part in all this?" Trudy frowned.

"Thats a damn good question doc." Doc Mitchell set the cork back into the bottle and leaned against the bar for a moment.

"It was the strangest thing; that cowboy face flickered off and his voice changed, like it was someone else talkin' through'im." Trudy thought back to the cold, detached voice that had addressed herself and Sunny the night before and felt a chill run up her spine." An awkward silence followed for a moment before the doctor rose up from the barstool he was perched on and gathered his liquor bottles.

"Anyway, I've got to get back to my patient. He's stable, but our 'visitor' is still in pretty rough shape. You take care now Trudy." He said before slipping out the door and back out into the glaring Mojave sun. Outside, from a hill under the shade of a rough, scrub bush Joe Cobb watched the doctor leave the saloon with his liqour. To his disapointment, the old man simply made his way home.

"Fuck." The powder ganger muttered under his breath. These yokels were careful; wherever they were hiding Ringo they were sure not to visit in the day light, and he sure as _hell_ wasn't coming out. The door to the bar opened again, this time admiting the owner and Sunny Smiles, lighting up cigarettes and chatting.

_I bet these bitches know where Ringo's hiding. I think me an' the boys need to pay them a visit tonight..._

A grim smile spread across his lips as he regarded thetwo women standing in front of the bar. Slipping the binoculars into his bagg, Cobb crept back from the crest of the hill and once out of sight, rose and began walking back to his camp a few hundred yards away forom the town, out in the Mojave. He walked on through the desert, occasionally bringing the heavy duty canteen lashed to his leg up to his lips and mopping at the sweat on his brow. After a time, a grouping of tents came into view and Cobb quickened his step, already growing agitated at the broiling orange fire ball in the sky. The soothing cover of the canvas tents the powder-gangers had thrown together slipped over Cobb's head and he felt the chilling rush of shade over his features. There were another six men lounging beneath the tenting, sipping water and roasting gecko meat over an open fire. As Cobb walked into the tent, the men glanced up but other than spitting or nodding did nothing. A looming bald headed giant of a man rose from around the campfire, nibbling on charred gecko meat he had skewered on a stick.

"Wha'sup boss?" The man drawled around mouthfuls of gecko. Cobb scowled; the backwoods drawl favored by many back west grated on him. Back on the Strip, he had been livin' large running Jet for the Gommorrah's Omerta family had made him a rich man and in New Vegas, everything and everyone had a price. It was only the best for Joe Cobb and his lil' bro. Then, some NCR yuppie fuck had to happen to stumble across his 'caravan' and inspect his cargo. Now, Joe Cobb, big shot gun runner was little more than a common thug, stuck out in the middle of bumble-fuck with these inbred, backwoods assholes. But once he got up the scratch to get back inside The Strip...He cut the thought off where it was. That Crimson Caravan fucker had to die before he could even _dream_ about running back to The Strip. He'd put up with all the backwoods, bumblescumb fucktards still left in the world. He closed his eyes for a moment, seeing the moment play out in his head for what felt like the millionth time.

It was simple, they'd done it tons of times before; just toss some dynamite out on the road in front of the caravan as they came down the trail and start shooting. Nine times out of ten these caravan types would just drop their cargo and run on the spot. Easy. How could that go so wrong? Cobb shook his head, clearing his thoughts for the business at hand.

"Lou, tonight I want you and Shep to go to Goodsprings. Camp it out until night, but don't take your eyes off that shit-hole saloon down the road. Those two bitches that're always hangin' around, the milf and the little red-head? I want you to follow them home tonight."

Lou nodded agreeably and swallowed a lump of gecko that seemed to be giving him some trouble. A crooked grin spread across the mans features and what few remaining teeth he had leered through.

"Hee, hee. I like girlies." Said the giant. Cobb had to fight to keep his features from conveying the disgust he felt for the man; Lou was some back-woods fucktard from back west. He'd gotten shipped out for a series of rapes in Vault City, and his sexual appetite hadn't diminished any once he got locked up. Joe shuddered; he could still remember the screams of the new 'fishes' echoing off the sparse walls of the prison, broken only by the sound of the screws laughter.

"You're not goin' after them. Not tonight. Just follow them home, write down where they live and come back to me, nothing else, got that?"

"Uhhh..."

"GOT THAT?"

"Yeah boss, but...I dunno how to write." Cobb stared in disbelief at the towering ogre for minute before running a hand over his face.

"Okay. So you can't write. Fantastic. Tell you what fuck-nuts; forget I said anything." Cobb said, turning and throwing his hands up before stalking off into a neighboring tent. He settled into a folding lawn chair with the words 'COBB'S FUKIN CHAIR HANDS OFF' written in thick black paint. He collapsed into the folding chair and ran his hands over the stubble on his scalp. Sighing, he leaned forward and dug a pack of cigarettes out of the duffle bag he set in the dirt. It was empty. A scowl spread over his features and his head snapped up. The night before had been a blow out; when the others were good and trashed off the last of the 'goods' they'd snatched from some fiends a week or so back and Cobb had convinced them into playing poker with their bogeys on the line. For the most part Cobb had won the pot and the envious glares of everyone around the fire that night. As he peered about the flat, sun baked expanse of the mojave, he saw a slight trickle of smoke coming in from behind a nearby rock formation. He rose quickly and hefted the duffle bag, walking in cool collected strides over to the rocks. Rounding the corner, he saw one of his men, an arsonist from New Reno named Al snubbing a cigarette against the sandstone outcropping before reaching for another tucked behind his ear. Cobb dug into the duffel bag at his side, freeing an old world collapsable riot baton before tossing the bag into the dirt. He crept up behind Al as the man went fumbling into his pockets. Mere inches away, Cobb spoke.

"Hey Al." Was all Cobb said. The man moved to turn, fresh cigarette tucked in the corner of his lip when the baton caught him alongside his face. Al stumbled backwards clutching at his jaw as the bogey fell from his lips and dropped to the dirt. Cobb picked it up slowly, turning it over in his hands for a moment before popping it in his mouth and fumbling about his clothes for a book of matches that he carried. Failing to find it, he narrowed his gaze to the man pawing at his swelling cheek.

"Got a light?" Al stood frozen, hand cemented to the side of his battered jaw. Sighing, Cobb strolled slowly towards the man. Al dropped his hand and seemed to have gotten over the initial shock of the baton rattling his skull. He still had a spare cigarette tucked behind his other ear, taken from Cobb's pack and he hurriedly produced a lighter from his pockets before offering it up with the stolen cigarette.

"H-here Joe. I-I'm sorry, I was just fiendin' for a smoke, thats all. I gots caps, I'll paya for'it." Cobb stopped in front of the man, baton resting at ease on his shoulder as he leaned forward to take the cigarette and let Al light the bogey in his mouth. Cobb took a deep drag off of his bogey and puffed a cloud of smoke out through his nostrils, releasing a contented sigh and letting his eyes close as he did so. He remained still for a moment, eyes closed, head tilted up towards the Mojave sun. He looked peaceful. Then, his eyes opened and lingered on Al for a moment. He had started to shrink away from Cobb, little by little. Without warning Cobb lunged forward and hammered him once more in the head with the baton, this time with enough force to send the arsonist to the dirt. He bounced and rolled on the uneven ground before coming to a stop and trying to come to his feet. But Cobb was quick. As the arsonist from back west tried to rise, Cobb charged at the man at full sprint, aiming to kick him in the midsection before he could rise. Instead, Al freed a rusty combat knife from its strap on his thigh and slashed at Cobb, only narrowly missing his leg.

Thrown off by the other man's attack, Cobb stumbled and fell atop Al. They wrestled on the ground for a moment before Cobb managed to get free and shoved his opponent away before jumping back to his feet, riot baton tight in hand as Al rose, wiping a trickle of blood from his mouth with the back of a grubby hand. He held the knife menacingly and narrowed his beady dark eyes at Cobb. Cobb though had somehow managed to keep the cigarette in his mouth intact and he puffed absently on the bogey while eyeing the other man up.

"Hey Cobb, I'm sorry man but you surprised me an' that shit hurt man! The fuck? I told you I'd pay for it!" He said with a nervous laugh while casting a glance about the camp for anyone who looked like they shared his sentiment. Every man in the camp suddenly found themselves interested in their shoes or trying to see shapes in the rock formations in the distance. Cobb lunged forward again, riot baton little more than a black blur whizzing through the air. This time though, Al was ready and sidestepped thewide swing before answering back with one of his own. The knife glanced off the side of the dented baton as Cobb deflected the strike with a back stroke. But his momentum had thrown him off balance and Al capitalized as Cobb fought for stability by charging forward, knife slashing wildly before him. Cobb felt the blade's rusted, serrated edge tear open his clothes and cut him just above his stomach. It wasn't too deep, thought Cobb as he staggered back from the man who stood looking just as stunned as the man with the gash.

"Oh shit...Cobb, my bad man but...Cobb? COBB!" Cobb payed the man no mind as he pitched back and hurled the baton at the other man, connecting the rod with his forehead and sending the man reeling before charging and tackling him to the ground.

They wrestled for a time, but though bleeding, Cobb was the better fed and larger man and quickly managed to mount his opponent and gain the upper hand.. The loss of his baton mattered little to the experienced convict as he tightend his hands into fists and began pummeling Al's exposed body and face. Weakly, the other man tried to block or deflect the blows but it was to no avail and soon, Al's hands slipped to his sides as Cobb slammed his heavy fists over and over into the man beneath him.

"YOU STEAL FROM ME? HUH? YOU FUCKIN CUT ME BITCH, I'LL KILL YOU MOTHER FUCKER!" Cobb Roared, his hands swollen and caked in blood as they rose and fell, rose and fell until the man beneath him was no longer recognizable as such. His face was bloody mess of welts, cuts and mottled bruises. Several of his teeth had been dislodged as well and were now lying on the ground beside his head.

"Get...Him...outta here." Cobb huffed around gasping breaths, suddenly becoming aware of the sharp pain running through his hands. Now on his feet, Cobb directed a glare at the body laying on the ground.

"You fuckin' broke my hand, YOU. PIECE. OF. SHIT!" He bellowed, punctuating the last words with hard kicks into Al's ribs. A morose groan was all that emanated from the battered man as two powder gangers appered and took him up by the arms before hauling him off towards the 'medicine' tent. As they walked, Cobb shouted after them.

"Get him fixed up, but no stimpaks, and no fuckin' Med-X. I want the fucker to _feel_ that." That said, Cobb turned his attention to the scraping, throbbing pain in his hands. A few of his knuckes was broken for sure and it was hard to tell how much of the blood caking his hands was his own. Turning back to face the man dragging Al off he shouted.

"I SWEAR TO GOD AL, I'LL FUCKIN' KILL YOU IF I PICK UP SOME DISEASE YOU GOT FROM SOME SLUT ON THE STRIP! YOU HEAR ME!" Unsurprisingly, Al was lacking a response and Cobb returned to his tent, collapsing in the folding chair set beneath the canopy. He tied a piece of rubber tubbing about his bicep, making the veins in his arm show through his sun baked flesh. He hauled a heavy strong box up from beneath the suspended cot in the tent's corner and set it down on the lone plastic lawn table at the tent's center. Slipping the key out of his shoe, Cobb unlocked his strong box and gazed in at his personal stash. Jet, Med-X, little bit of Psycho (though he hadn't touched the stuff in ages), mentats and finally stimpaks, all neatly lined up and separated. Loading a hypodermic needle, he plunged it into a filled med-x container and filled the needle chamber with the amber codeine. Blowing out a breath, he plunged the needle into into his exposed vein and thumbed the plunger all the way down, feeling the soothing murkiness of the opiates taking their course. Before he got too doped up though, Cobb snatched up a stimpak in a trembling, battered hand and punged it into the same hole in his arm that he had just used for the med-x before. The pain-killing foam and regenerative acids and replacement cells flooded his veins with the opiates, Cobb felt his arm go cold and numb for a moment before his wounds started heating up and his muscles clenching. It was an unpleasant process, the beginning of a stimpak's restoration, but the med-x had Cobb in a sweet haze as the medicine did its work, knitting the tears in his flesh shut and repairing the torn and stiffening muscles that were just in use. Cobb fought for consciousness but the morphine and the strain of the stimpak on his body sent him spiraling off to a heavy, drug laden sleep.

-Off to the side, as Cobb fell into his fitful opiate nap, Lou dug one of the cigarettes he had stolen from Cobb's pack earlier and popped in his mouth before lighting it. He eyed the man in the chair with narrow eyes for a moment and let his free hand run over the protruding girth of his stomach while silently pondering the sun from where it hung at just past midday. Cobb was going to be under for a while, until night fall at least. He thought, taking a long drag off the cigarette as he saw Cobb's head slip back into his chair. Lou Eriks was not an intelligent man by any account. But he was a _smart_ man. That was how he had managed to evade authorities even inside Vault City. Born the illegitimate son of two 'servants', he was raised as one of Vault Cities slave workers. His first murder came out as a result of psycho experimentation when he was eighteen. The blood on his hands was a rush, and soon Vault City was host to a series of bizarre and brutal murders amongst its servant population. The city's upper crust of course had cared little and glossed the entire matter over as a rash of arguements turned violent.

_But then,_ he thought, smoke billowing from his nostrils, _ I saw the girliiiieeees. _ They had been so pretty, so perfect in their little dresses. A big one, and a little one. They were lost, looking for a friend's home when they asked him for directions. He nodded and lead them down a dead end alley in the servant's area. It was then that he committed his first rape. _But only the big one. I kill't the lil one. I ain't no pervert. _He eluded the authorities for years, striking sporadically and unpredictably, his targets and methods changing with each attack. Bad luck brought the NCR to his door. Well, bad luck and a witness. He avoided the fire squad by inches, because although his involvement in the other attacks were suspected, there was no evidence to go on and so Lou Eriks was shipped east to the desert, to the chain gang. Prison wasn't so bad for the giant from Vault City; free food and you could pretty much get away with anything so long as you didn't drag the screws into it.

Now though, the predator was freed from his cage and he felt old urges rising. Sure, he was loyal to Cobb and the powder gangers an' all, but a man had needs and now that he was on the outside he couldn't very well be expected to make do with finding a prison pretty boy and keeping his eyes shut. He licked his lips, savoring the taste of tobacco and nicotine and the edge it gave to his hunger. Lou turned to gaze out towards the town of Goodsprings. As he saw it, Cobb was getting the boys together to go have some fun in town, an' all because a' his bein' illiterate, good ol' Lou was bein' cut out. But now Cobb was doped up to his eyeballs blacked out in his chair, and no one else knew of the plan.

"Hee hee, more for me." The giant muttered under his breath. But it was still early, and there would be time yet before he could visit the girlies. Lou dropped his cigarette and snubbed it out with his shoe before making his way across the camp, towards the medicine tent. The other powder gangers gathered in the camp gave the man a wide berth; they knew of his carnal natures and knew better than to draw the lumbering rapist's eye. Slipping under the shade of the medicine tent, Lou gave a glance around. It was a patchy canopy stretched over a long wooden table. On a small steel prep table bandages and disinfectants were laid out; anything that couldn't be used to get you stoned was just left out in the open. Cobb had the only key to the strongbox with the good stuff in it. But the big man's attention wasn't on the tools or drugs; it was on the unconscious man sprawled across the table, his battered face and hands messily treated and bandaged. Lou reached down and unzipped his fly before reaching forward and flipping the man on the table onto his stomach. Al came awake and began screaming as his broken nose and battered face were pushed brutishly into the table face. He felt strong hands tearing at his pant line and his frantic shouts were soon joined by morose giggling. _A mans got needs, after all._


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Forty-two **

Doc Mitchell slipped inside his home quickly, seeking to escape the scorching Mojave sun. The liquor he had purchased earlier from the Prospector saloon was tight in grip as the doctor walked inside his home, stopping to set a bottle of hooch down on the table in his living room. The other, he carried with him as he walked down the hall to his operating room. He slipped inside and flipped the light switch on. Mounted on the wall at the room's rear was a sink, currently filled with contaminated tools and devices. Stroking his moustache, Doc Mitchell approached the sink, stopped up the drain and began pouring the whiskey over the bloodied tools. Then, something caught the corner of his eye. Or rather, the lack of something. He whirled around and stared down at his operating table. It was empty. Numb fingers set the whiskey bottle on the prep table and after a moments hesitation, lifted a scalpel. Possibilities whirled through the aged doctor's mind as he peeked his head cautiously out of the door way. He could hear movement on the other side of his house, heavy foot steps in sporadic whumps and bangs emanating from his kitchen area before storming off towards his room.. Doc Mitchell crept into the living room, scalpel extended menacingly before him as he approached his bedroom. The door flew open and the doctor stood stunned. Standing before him, naked as the day he was born, was his patient.

Some time passed and the doctor managed to get pants on his patient who had animated some time earlier and began tearing his house apart. The living room furniture was mostly flipped over and tossed about, books opened and strewn about the area. The kitchen was a similar disaster zone, plates and cooking wares thrown all about, chipped where they weren't broken completely.

"So...Mr. Jack. How are you feeling?" Doc Mitchell said, sitting the man down at a chair around the kitchen table. Jackson Derricks said nothing and merely settled onto the battered and uneven wooden chair. The doctor eyed his patient over for a moment before settling into a chair across the table. Jack was in pretty good shape; his body and fair skin darkened by the sun and hardened by the elements. Tone muscle criss-crossed with scars covered his body and far from the first time the doctor found himself wondering who exactly this man was.

"Can you understand me?" The doctor asked, peering into the other man's eyes. They were of a light, almost cerulean blue and the only part of his face not covered by gauze bandages. The bullet had caused quite a few nerves in the boy's face to go dead when it came crashing through, and the auto doc as with every other procedure had gotten the job quickly and proficiently, but brutishly and it would take some time for the nerve endings to repair fully. And until then, those bandages were better off staying on. His patient gazed about the house absently from shaded eyelids before giving a brief nod to the doctor. Doctor Mitchell was stunned. His upper cognitive functions seemed to be impaired, as could be expected, but if he could understand speech and still maintened a decent grip on motor skills after being shot in the face, then this was one extraordinary patient.

"Can you tell me how old you are?"

"Forty-two." Mumbled Jack from beneath his bandages. Doc Mitchell blinked. He was stunned. This patient was something else. His vitals had held strong through the loss of brain function, and now it seemed his brain had scrambled its upper cognitive functions together after just the first regenerative tissue implant! This was a miracle of medical science, if he could study and eventually replicate these results, it would mean a new wave of treatment and medicine for those injured or even killed out in the wasteland!

"Can you tell me where you're from?" The doctor asked, failing to hold back the excitement in his voice as the possibilities swam through his thoughts. Jack blinked and cocked his head to the side.

"Forty-two." Doc Mitchell groaned and ran a hand over his features.

"Well, so much for that theory. You're a tough son-of-a-bitch, I'll give you that, but you're still just a vegetable with legs right now, aren't'ya?" Unsurprisingly, his patient gave no response as Jack's attention seemed to have been caught by something outside and the man leapt out of his seat before darting out the back door and into the yard, shouting the whole way.

"Purple, X-Ray, erix, niner, Sixty-oneeeee!" The doctor was left sitting at the table, dumbstruck by what had just happened before rising to his feet and hurrying after his patient. Once outside, the doctor found Jack perched on a chair out in the yard, crouched down atop the lawn chair's seat rather than sitting in it.

"Lively one, ain't'ya Jackie boy?" Doc Mitchell said, settling into the chair beside the man.

"Forty-two!" Said Jack, nodding agreeably before stretching. The Doctor fished a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and regarded them for a moment before placing a bogey in his mouth and taking a light to it, blowing out a contented sigh as he sunk back into the chair. The Doctor yawned and felt his eyes growing heavy.

"So, Jack. What is it that makes you so special? You sure caused a hell of a stir in Goodsprings son." Said the doctor, taking a long drag on his cigarette. He glanced over at the man perched on the lawn chair beside him and found his bandaged faced patient eye balling his lit bogey. The doctor cocked an eyebrow and offered the pack to his patient who eyed it strangely for a moment before taking the pack in hand. He stared at it for a moment as though uncertain of what it was before opening the top and retrieving a cigarette which he promptly placed in his mouth-backwards.

"Lemme give you a hand there, friend." Said Doc Mitchell, plucking the misplaced cigarette from his patient's mouth before placing it back in the correct way and lighting it.

"You're welcome."

"Forty-two." Said Jack, puffing out a cloud of smoke with a contented sigh. Doc Mitchell watched his patient curiously as the man smoked down his cigarette.

"So Jack," He said, leaning back in his chair and letting his eyes slip shut. "Tell me about yourself." Jack began coughing violently, and Doc Mitchell's eyes snapped open to find that the man was smoking the filter. Leaning over with a sigh he swatted the smoldering cigarette filter out of his patient's mouth. Jack blinked and nodded before leaning back in his chair.

"Forty-two."  
"Had a feeling you might say that." The doctor said, leaning back in his seat and letting his eyes close once more.

"So friend, since you're feeling so talkative, hows'bout you tell me who killed you, huh?" However this time, his patient remained silent. As the silence went on, the elderly doctor found the whiskey from earlier catching up with his senses and lulling him into a doze.

That was why he missed the sudden change in his patient's demeanour. The man had sat bolt upright, his hands gripping the chair's armrests in a white knuckel death-clutch. His eyes had sharpened, and he was trembling. Had the doctor glanced over then, he would've seen that the calming blue eyes he had seen before had turned to raging thunderheads. His mouth fought to form the words roiling within his shattered psyche. Perhaps the protein enriched adaptive replacement cell therapy was beginning to take hold then, allowing crude thoughts to take hold in the murky depths of his mind. Or perhaps, it was the sheer, blinding rage he felt then that willed them into being. The bullet had crippled his upper cognitive skills, but left intact was something more..._base._ Something _primal_. His blood burned within his veins, his broken mind shrieked in outrage as a single thought clawed its way into clarity.

"Checkered...Suit." Jack growled. He leapt to his feet, his fists clenched tight, throwing his head back and loosing a roar.

"**CHECKEEERREED SUUUIIIIIT!" **Doc Mitchell had slipped into a deep, alcohol and exhaustion fueled sleep and slumbered through the his patient's outburst. Jack's chest heaved in great gulps of air, ignoring the pain of his nails biting into the flesh of his hands and the thin trickle of blood running down his wrists. He clenched his head in his hands and collapsed to his knees, groaning at the intense pain that had manifested in his skull.

'_Time to cash out...'_ White lances of pain rocketed through his skull to the base of his spine as an image fought its way into clarity. A handsome man, with an elegant coif, gaudy nine-mill extended in a manicured hand, and a look of grim acceptance on his face. _BANG_. Jack's eyes snapped open as the lightning coursing through his body subsided and he collapsed onto his hands and knees, gasping for air. When his head again rose he gazed outward into the Mojave desert, towards the glittering lights of The Strip. From somewhere deep down in the broken reaches of his mind, he felt a _pull_. But it wasn't towards the shimmering oasis of The Strip. No, as a hot desert wind whipped past towards the west, towards Arizona, Jack felt a chill run the length of his spine as he followed the wind with his eyes. He rose somberly and stood still for a moment, feeling the breeze on his bare chest. The doctor had begun snoring lightly and Jack turned to look at the man, as though just realizing he was there. The bandaged head man walked inside his saviors house, slipping through the kitchen's back door quickly before returning with a wide brimmed hat. He regarded the hat for a moment before placing it over the slumbering doctor's face, shielding him from the suns rays as the doctor dozed.. Jackson Derricks eyed the sleeping doctor for a moment before turning and walking down the rough path towards the road...

In Primm, a suave man in a checkered suit was hunched over the sparse bar in the Vicki and Vance casino. His leather jacketed goons were fast asleep in their rooms, but sleep was proving difficult for the man currently downing the piss-water these yokels passed off as liquor. He felt...apprehensive. Tense. Not about House; there was no way the wizard could know what was coming his way. It was about the man laying in a shallow grave in Goodsprings. This man was no stranger to killing, his stomach had long since stopped churning at the bodies he left in his wake. But the Courier had been innocent, a victim of chance and circumstance. He had put up a pretty decent scuffle, though the Khans were good at what they did. Sighing, he finished his glass and rose from the bar, dropping several caps on the counter before turning and walking back into the 'casino'. As he weaved around milling people and the shot up car, Checkered suit rolled his eyes at the casinos 'decor'. The people present were of the rough and tumble, simple variety commonly found in the Mojave wastes; dirt under their finger nails and simple clothes on their working stiff backs. Checkered suit was a man of much more ambition though, that was the reason he was the head of the Chairmen, with a swanky room back on The Strip, money, power and all the luxuries that came with them.

_This shit-hole ain't nothin' compared to the Tops'. The girls they got workin' the tables is busted, and theres only two fuckin' poker tables. Two! Whatever. After this piss-hole, I need to ditch those Khans. They're startin' to get wise an' I ain't got their fuckin' money. _Sighing, he walked past the full up poker tables and settled in on a stool around the roulette table as the table operator called for all bets. Digging into his jacket pocket, he brandished several casino chips and set thirty caps worth onto the chipped green fluroescent square marked 'RED'. The Rouelette operater called that betting was finished and set the roulette in motion. Checkered suit gazed down at the blur and closed his eyes. The rush of gambling had always been his favorite high, his favorite rush. The odds were always stacked against you, but if you were smart and played your cards close to your breast then you could beat them. That was why the man in the checkered suit was going to rise to be a god among these ants. He thrived on the gamble, the odds. He saw the opportunities when House and his robots rolled in, saw what prizes lay in store for someone willing to work with them. He opened his eyes just as the ball dropped and he watched with rapt attention as it bounced about the whirling roulette. As the wheel slowed, Checkered Suit scowled as he saw the outcome.

"Forty-two. Black." Came the table operator's cry followed by the varying groans and cheers from the people surrounding the table. After the table was cleared, Checkered suit hesitated for a moment before dropping another thirty on red. The table operator called out and spun the roulette once more before dropping the ball. Checkered suit sat back and crossed his arms, attention focused on the whirling roulette. When it finally came to stop, checkered suit cocked an eyebrow and frowned.

"Forty-two. Black." The man in the checkered suit smiled grimly as he regarded the outcome of the second spin.

"Hmmph. Now what were the odds of that?"


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: The Price We Pay **

Far removed from the troubles of Goodsprings, and growing farther removed from the shadow of a vegetable with legs with each passing moment, a group of armed men coated in dust from the trail, clearly marked as caravan guards by the Cassidy Caravan's bands wrapped around their arms, hovered close around a small, dirty child wearing a tattered khaki over shirt and matching trousers beneath the overpassing I88 highway. The Caravan guards drew out their purses and began shelling out caps into an open box set before the child. As the caps tinked into the open recepticle, the child looked up at them and smiled.

"So...You, Here...or _Everywhere?_" He said, spreading his hands. The first of the four caravan guards settled down on the dirt next to the boy, soon followed by the others.

"Wait, _what?_" Said the first in line, a younger man as evidenced by the sparse peach fuzz coating his features. One of the others, an older man laughed.

"He's The Forecaster, kid. He'll tell you somethin' 'bout you, where you're at now or...shit, _the world_." He said, voice tinged with awe and reverence. The younger man rolled his eyes and returned his gaze The Forecaster.

"Okay, I guess tell me about _the world." _He said sarcastically, waving his hands in the air. The Forecaster smiled, a light, careless thing that seemed only capable by the young or the naive, and slowy, hesitantly reached up and began to undo the mess of leather straps and clips that held a bizarre head piece in place. It was little more than a leather strap with four rounded metal studs at equidistant points, but he pulled it off gently before setting it on the ground. The child let his eyes slip shut and took a deep breath in through his nose and went still for a moment. The young man's visage changed to one of skepticism as he cocked an eyebrow and waited out the silence. When the boy spoke, it was a soft, hollow thing, as though the words were flowing from some source other than the child who's lips parted to speak in hushed tones.

"Bull and a Bear over the Dam; but problems far removed from the trail, from the pay day and the roulette tables. But this time the trail runs its course before it ends; pawns clearing the way for the Queen when the losing hand is dealt. X marks the spot, the remains for the Joker and his Queen to find. Forecast: Severe thunder with a chance of fate." The young caravan guard eyed the child before him, his features frozen.

"And what the fuck is that supposed to mean? The only queen out here is Cass, an' her ass is stuck back at the Mojave Outpost." The older caravan guard leaned forward and gave the other a shove on his shoulder.

"Have some respect you dumb bastard, your supposed to fill in the gaps for y'erself. Now watch out; its my turn."

The Forecaster sat still in his home beneath the I88 overpass, waiting out the heat of the day. He was tired; the jingling of several hundred caps from within his bag of things could attest to that, but if life had taught the orphan anything, it was that when you were offered something you were best off taking it. The psychic nullifier strapped to his head seemed to hum in agreement as another one of his bizarre thoughts began to form.

"Mmmph." He said, adjusting the straps to tighten the nullifier. The last thing he needed was for one of his migraines to come screaming back. Frowning, he leaned back into the tattered padding that served as his bedding and let his eyes slip shut. The information streaming through his brain seemed to slow some and the child soon found himself bordering on the edge of sleep. As he lay his head on the bundle of discarded rags he used as a pillow, the strap he had tightened came loose, and as the child's head pressed against the rags, the boy rolled onto his shoulder, sending the psychic nullifier tumbling into the dirt beside him. He sat bolt upright, peering about frantically for his 'medicine', his eyes eventually coming to rest on the Psychic Nullifier that had toppled from his head. He reached for it, hand outstretched when suddenly his body was struck with a sudden spasm. The boy collapsed to the ground and started thrashing wildly. There came a shout, and a slender woman clothed in dingy, tattered robes came sprinting from over the overpass. She cared for the little orphan boy. Having grown up without parents herself, she knew all too well the hardship's that came with being an orphan in this broken world.

She dove down atop the thrashing Forecaster, pinning his arms and doing her best to keep him still. For his size, the boy was incredibly strong and it took all she had to keep him still. Then, his body suddenly went limp in her arms, his head going lax and settling in on the ground.

"Forecaster? Corey? Corey wake up!" She said, slapping the boy lightly on his face and shoving his shoulders lightly. Several terse moments passed and for a split second the woman thought the Forecaster was dead before he suddenly shot up to a sitting position. The hammering in her chest relaxed a little, but when she looked into his eyes it shot up once more; his eyes were glossy white and his pupils rolling back into his head. He suddenly began to speak, and as she always did when the hollow, ominous voice rang from his mouth.

"Two to the head; but one gets up...Feet connected to a body short a mind trudging through the dust, through the wind. Searching for nothing, but seeking the future. Finding...renaissance. A free spin, a second chance, bet stacked on 7, the lucky number bumped down to 6 for the Mojave to sort out. Walking a Lonesome Road, but not alone; guilt travels alongside like a shadow. Forecast: Severe Weather Warning with a chance of obliteration...or rebirth." He went slack once more, falling backwards into the waiting arms of the woman who had come to his side. Her fear subsided when she realized he had fallen into a deep, fitful sleep and after slipping his 'medicine' back on and tightening it, she just watched the child as he slumbered in his abode beneath the overpass. He had never responded to one of his bizarre 'thoughts' that way in all the years she had known the prophetic orphan, and whats more they usually required some kind of trigger or topic to trigger...Was it her presence? She pondered this thought with a frown on her delicate features beneath the rough hood of her robes and tried to figure out the meaning of his words.

She couldn't figure it out; Lonesome Road? And what the hell was a renaissance? She watched the Forecaster sleep for a time, taking note of the immediate drop off in sleep the boy experienced when the nullifier was strapped to his head. Sighing, she plopped down on an upturned bucket that served as the boy's chair and set her chin upon an outstretched fist.

"Why can't you just for once say 'Veronica, a tall, leggy Brunette with a tight ass and a nice personality will be stopping by sometime today so go get something sexy on?'"

Up above the sexually frustrated robed woman, a tall man in a black trench coat and fedora smoked a cigarette while waiting for a rough man in a trader outfit to pour him another scotch whill he ate his meal of spit-cooked gecko. A woman sat beside him, garbed in an _extremely _revealing dancing outfit favored by belly dancers of old, and the 'performers' to be found on the New Vegas Strip, complete with a silk veil and ornate plumed headpiece. Her focus was not on food or liquor, however; her eyes had been shut for some time now, and aside from a low hum, she had said nothing for the better part of the past twenty or thirty minutes. When her eyes again opened, she found the Mysterious man seated beside her staring intently. She blushed a little beneath her veil but did not lose her composure. Nodding, the two rose, the trench coat wearing man depositing caps on the bar as they did so. The two began walking quite hastily into the Mojave Desert, their destination unknown, but set in mind nonetheless. After a time, the woman spoke.

"The deed is done darling; I've seeded the roots in Cor-The Forecaster's mind." She said, somewhat dejectedly. The Mysterious man gave her a heavy look from his coal black eyes.

"I know you don't like it, but you saw the visions too. The Forecaster may not be a main player in this game, but his presence is vital to guiding the events about to unfold. The Courier needs him, darling." She turned her eyes down.

"I know but...I need my son..._Our_ son. Its been so long. He doesn't even remember me...Or you, for that matter." The Mysterious man grimaced and went silent for a moment.  
"We do what we have to because no one else can, my love. What we do now, we do so that Corey will _have a future to grow into_. You've seen the consequences if we waiver; if we are weak then everything will be lost. This man, this Courier is the last and only hope the people of this wasteland have. We can't know what he will do; the visions are unclear, showing possibilities instead of a single truth. Perhaps even he is unsure, but we must take the prudent steps to guide this man to his destiny."

Miss Fortune settled her twinkling hazel eyes on those of her love.

"You're right...I'm sorry." He stopped and folded her into his arms.

"You have nothing to be sorry for. We are no strangers to sacrifice. But what we do, we do for all. Take heart in it." He said, planting a light kiss on her forehead. She smiled beneath the veil and lifted it momentarily so she could press her lips against his. Their desert trek continued through the hottest hours of noon and on into the evening, closing in quickly on their target, their wild card and the one man whose choices could end the status quo and change life in New Vegas forever.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Dancing the Dance **

"I think theres something wrong with'em." Said a gaunt, emaciated man coated in little more than grime and tattered rags along with a helmet with a small animal's skull lashed to it.

"I don't care! Hey buddy, you got any money?" Said another, this one edging closer to the bandaged faced man who stood before them. The sun had sunk from its zenith, now marching onward towards evening. The dingy clock set above the bar in the Prospector saloon read 7:30 as the three Fiends edged closer to the man standing before them.

"Forty-two." He said in response to the question. A third filthy bandit fell in beside the other two, this one a woman, her features were aged and ravaged by continued substance abuse, the lines in her face craggy and weathered.

"The fuck does that even mean? Agghhh, this guy is freakin' me the fuck out!" She howled, raising a crude club menacingly. The three Fiends stood a sparse five feet from the Courier now, weapons raised and lightning in their dark, blood shot eyes.

"I think he's trippin'! Must be some good shit too...got any left huh?" The speaker was a tall man whose flesh clung tight to his withering frame. Dark greasy hair hung in clumps from his head. The other male was short, stocky blonde man, who once could have been called handsome, but scars, a twisted and bent nose coupled with a lack of teeth and time had rendered him an appalling wretch. The woman jittered about for a bit, her club rising and falling in quick spasmodic motions. She loosed a scream and began sprinting towards the Courier.

"Forty-two." He said, as the Fiend closed distance. The others cackled madly as she drew closer, hefting her club to bring it crashing down on her target's head.

However, the Courier sidestepped the attack at the last moment, the club grazing a sparse few inches short of his head. The Fiend girl stood stunned, gazing over at the bandaged man, arm outstretched in attack. He stood still and looked back at her for a moment, blue eyes placid and calm. He stood there, frozen before time came thundering back into clarity as the bandaged man took a step forward and launched off his back foot, driving the point of his knee into the merging point of her sternum. Her body malnourished and withered crumpled to the ground in a heap, the base of her rib cage shattered. The other two came rushing forward, the razor edge on their blades shining menacingly in the fading sunlight. The first lunged forward and extended his arm in shoulder driven stab. The Courier twisted to avoid the blade and felt the knife's edge slice a line in his side. Slipping inside his attacker's guard, taking an iron grip on the Fiend's wrist Jack slammed a looping elbow into the Fiend's jaw before looping a leg around the other man's heel and sweeping him to the ground. The third leapt forward, blade slashing wildly before him. The Courier managed to raise an arm before the Fiend leapt atop him, the dull blade tearing though the flesh of his forearm. Jack howled and struggled against the Fiend who was currently trying to drive the blade downward into the bleeding Courier. The Fiend hadn't eaten in days and was going through the later stages of psycho withdrawal but the Courier was wounded, blood flowing freely from the cuts in his arm and side, tired from his trek through the Mojave and still suffering from a condition referred to by modern science as 'Having been shot in the damn head.' The Courier felt his grip slipping, finding little purchase on the sweat slicked grime that coated the Fiend's wrist as the knife inched closer to his exposed neck. The Fiend leaned forward and drove his knees into the Courier's chest, knocking the wind from his victim as he wrenched the knife free and rose it over his head in a two handed grip, preparing to drive the blade down into the helpless Courier pinned beneath him.

The Courier felt time slow to a crawl once more, just as the blade began the downward descent that would end his life for the second time. He didn't blink. A blur of colors and images flooded his broken mind. Emotions stirred but didn't click in his mind. He felt frustration, despair and anger, but finally, there was the image of a small boy, with bright blue eyes and short cropped dark hair. His face was frozen in bright smile. He was waving, dressed in dingy blue overalls but the memory started moving on, moving feet carrying the view away from the child before the memory faded entirely. This one was bittersweet, pain mixed with joy. The world came back as a screaming blur as a drop of sweat dropped from the Fiend's jaw into his eye and Jack loosed his held breath. Time returned to normal, and the blade started its lethal descent. Jack let his eyes slip shut and waited. _Bang_. Jack felt a splash of blood on his face and opened his eyes. The Fiend lay slumped on the ground, the space once filled by his head was now home to little more than a jutting trachea and a red, pasty mess.

"Trouble certainly seems to follow in your footsteps doesn't it, Mr. Courier?" Came a shout from a tall man in a matching black trench coat and fedora, smoking .44 outstretched in his grip. Holstering the weapon, the Mysterious Stranger and his scantily clad mate came strolling over to where the Courier lay. The trench coated man hauled the battered Courier to his feet and set him upright, brushing the clinging dirt from his back. There came a groan from beside and the Mysterious man offered his weapon to Jack.

"You finish what you start." He said, pointing with his free hand to the other two Fiends sprawled out on the ground. Jack gripped the revolver tightly and stared at it for a moment, eyes running along the intricate engraving running the barrel's length. He extended his arm, and aimed down at the groaning woman outstretched on the ground. He fired and removed her head as the other man who had been thrown to the ground leapt to his feet and took off running. But the desert ran flat and open for miles around with almost no cover. Jack straightened his arm and settled his feet, sighting down the barrel of the .44 the Courier centered the crosshairs and squeezed the tight metal trigger. The bullet punched a large sized hole in the fleeing man's chest, turning his heart into chili as the man collapsed to the ground dead. The Mysterious Man clapped the Courier on the shoulder.

"Beautiful shot. Guess some things you don't forget huh?" Jack turned and met the other man's gaze. The Mysterious Stranger frowned when he saw tears welling in the other man's eyes. Jack sunk to his knees, dropping the .44 onto the ground. The Courier wept as the Mysterious Stranger leaned in to pick up his weapon, scowling at the dirt on his weapon.

"No manners, I see." However, Miss Fortune weaved around her husband and placed a hand on the Courier's lowered head.

He turned up to look at her then, eyes glistening with tears as he wept in silence.

Kneeling down, the burlesque mystic cupped the bandaged face before her and gazed into the pained cerulean orbs set within.

"What's his issue?" The Mysterious Man said curtly, still sore about his prized revolver being discarded into the dirt like trash.

Miss Fortune gazed up at her husband, her dark soulful eyes half lidded.

"Guilt follows this man like his shadow; a projection of the past. He's hurt; his mind is in tatters. Can't tell what it is because of all this gauze, but there must be something pretty bad. He's all twisted up. That must be why I can't see his future; theres possibilities, fractures in the image like a picture in a broken mirror. I can see what he _could_ do, but I can't tell what he _will_ do. But that is neither here nor there." The Courier gazed up into her eyes, tears streaming from his own now as a despairing whisper escaped his lips.

"Forty-Four."

She ran a hand over the weeping man's scalp and after a moment he slipped into a heavy sleep.

"But I have seen you in another's future, Jackson Derricks. Rest well, for your strength is needed now before even the beginning of your journey. "

The Mysterious Stranger set his weapon back into its holster on the inner pocket of his coat before stooping down and hefting the slumbering man over his shoulder.

The dingy clock set above the Prospector Saloon's bar read 9:00 now , the sun dancing just on the horizon of another sunset. That evening, the Saloon was host to three rather large, out of towners. They kept the booze flowing and kept to themselves so Trudy didn't pay them much mind, but Sunny didn't much like the way the large bald one kept staring over at her and smiling….

_Hee hee, I sees a giiiirrllliiieeeee….._


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Jumping at Shadows**

Sunny frowned from the corner booth as the group of out of towners paid their tab and left the bar with the rest of its patrons in the wake of last call. The clock read 12:45 as the last of them, a large, leering bald man slipped outside and shut the door. Trudy beamed as she counted off the nights earnings behind the till.

"I don't know what you were belly-achin' about Sunny. Sure, the fat one had a wanderin' eye but he paid his tab and didn't cause no fuss."

"I dunno Trudy, somethin' about them just seems…off. How many settlers you know travel with no caravan or gear into a place like New Vegas?"

"Maybe they just came into town for a few drinks an' left the gear in camp, fuck if I know Sunny but I know better than to look a gift horse in its mouth."

"What if they're some'a Cobb's boys, here to spy on the town?" Sunny said in a hoarse whisper. Trudy frowned and settled her hands on her hips.

"Then they didn't find anything out from us. You need to relax Sunny." The younger woman frowned at the older one.

"Maybe…I dunno 'bout you, but I haven't slept easy since…y'know. _He_ got here."

"Me neither Sunny. But if you keep jumping at every shadow sooner or later your legs are gonna get sore." The younger woman regarded the older for a moment before turning her head away to gaze out into inky blackness that filled the window. Trudy frowned and regarded her friend for a moment, taking note of the heavy bags under her eyes, and the haggard expression she wore on her face. Feeling a rush of paranoia, she glanced behind the bar to the glass where she usually kept her revolver. That night, it stood empty. When the out of towners had rolled in she kicked herself for leaving it in her nightstand drawer. She shook her head; it seemed Sunny's paranoia was a touch infectious.

Sunny ran a hand over her face before rising from her barstool perch.

"I think I'm gonna head home."

"Yeah? If you want I'll walk with you, I just need to lock up real quick an' we can-"

"Thanks Trudy, but it's alright. You're right, I need to loosen up a lil'.Things have just been so crazy these past few days, I…I'm just feelin' the strain right now."

Trudy reached out and settled a hand on Sunny's shoulder.

"Its okay hon. We're all feelin' it. What we're doin' may not be easy, but it's the right thing to do." Sunny squeezed the other woman's hand and shot her a weary smile.

"Alright Trudy, take care. Cheyenne! Lets go." Sunny rose from her seat and exited the bar, Cheyenne close in tow. Trudy locked the safe beneath the bar floor before exiting the bar and locking the door. Once again, she found herself on the long, lonely walk back to her house. Truth be told, she had offered to walk Sunny home in part because she hadn't wanted to be alone after leaving the bar. She too felt the weight of unseen eyes and had developed a curious habit of glancing over her shoulder but had stayed her tongue to ease her friend's mind. Her wandering mind caused Trudy to stumble over a stone in the path and as she stopped to catch her balance, she thought she could hear heavy footsteps. Rising, she tensed and listened in the darkness for the treading of boots. The night was silent save for the whistle of a hot desert wind.

She quickened her step and soon her home was in view. Again, she felt a bite of paranoia and stopped mid-step. Her skin crawled under the weight of unseen eyes and she felt her pulse quickening as she began walking quickly down the path. The porch of her home seemed to extend outward for eternity in the frightful blackness as her mind conjured untold horrors of what lurked in the night. Leering Powder Gangers and raiders seemed hidden behind every fallen log, rock and shattered homestead as she strode briskly down Goodspring's main and only road. Finally, mercifully, she closed the gap separating her and her home, fighting down the urge to sprint up the steps. When she reached the top step however, she felt a violent tug at her dress. Shouting in surprise, Trudy wrenched violently away from her attacker, losing balance and tumbling to the warped floor-boards of her porch. Whipping her head up, she rose her arms in defense and shut her eyes against what was coming. For several long, agonizing seconds she sat there, frozen, arms raised and eyes shut tight. She contemplated her regrets, her life whipping through her mind in a frenzied blur of emotions and images. She should have never let Ringo stay. Hell, she should have never even settled in this blasted pit called Goodsprings! When she dared open her eyes, she found that blasted, battered tree growing in the yard had snagged and torn a piece of her dress off. She sat stunned, hands still raised in front of her face in guard, features frozen in a mix of utter horror and surprise. Then, she began to laugh. It started as a weak thing at first, but soon she was forced to stifle her mirth behind a hand. Relief came in a gentle wave, rippling down her body as she picked herself up off the porch. She began fumbling for her keys when her free hand found the door and found that it turned freely.

_Coulda sworn I locked that…_She though absently as she walked inside. When the door shut behind her, she quickly set about locking the door before leaning up against it, closing her eyes and taking a few long, deep breaths. The 'ordeal' had left her feeling flustered and hungry, so she strode down the hall towards her kitchen, kicking off her shoes as she did so. When she neared the kitchen, however, she felt a hot, desert breeze blowing through and turned her gaze to the window mounted above the sink. It was broken. She heard the light, hollow click of a 9mm hammer being cocked just behind her ear before a deep, threatening voice whispered.

"Scream and you're dead, bitch." She felt an iron grip fold around her arm as she was hauled into her bedroom and thrown roughly onto the floor. She landed in a heap on the ground before leaping back to her feet and turning to face her assailant. He was a tall man of fair, sun darkened skin. His hair was of a light auburn color and cut short over handsome features and large, chocolate eyes. She recognized him as one of the men from the bar. He stepped forward and Trudy raised her arms.

"I don't wanna hurt you lady." He said, lowering the gun and spreading out his hands. Trudy gazed over into his chocolate eyes and moved to take a step backwards. As she did so however, the intruder suddenly reached forward and took hold of the hole that had been torn in her dress, stripping the clothes from her body and throwing her roughly onto her bed.

"But things will start to get _reeeeaal_ ugly from here if you don't tell me what I wanna know." He growled, pistol raised now. Trudy fought back tears and backed up into the headboard, trying in vain to cover herself with her hands as she did so. Her underwear was old and though still holding together it was a bit revealing in places.

"W-what do you want to know?"

"You're going to tell me where in this shit-hole town Ringo is hiding, so I and some others can go blow his fucking head off and get as far away you people and this dump as possible." Trudy turned her gaze away for a moment, her heart thundering in terror as the man edged closer and closer to her bed, heavy revolver tight in hand and aimed straight at her.

"Listen lady, I ain't got all night. I came here to get somethin' and if I gotta leave without knowin' where Ringos hiding, then I'm leavin' with _you_. See, I ain't got the stomach for torturin' shit outta people like the boys back at the camp do. Hell, some of'm even get off on that shit. But I'll be damned if Imma let the opportunity for a crack at some prime pussy like yourself pass me by!" He said, free hand rising to undo his collar before descending down the first several buttons of his shirt.

"So, the way I'm seein' things is like this; I'm gonna start undoin' my shirt now because I haven't had me any in a loooong time. If you got something to say while I'm doin it, then say it an maybe I'll just leave you and be on my way. You stay quiet though, an I get this shirt off, then you an' me is gonna have a little fun before I drag your ass back to camp for the rest of the fella's to get a crack at. Maybe you'll get lucky an' the Legion will swing by to buy you before one of the boys gets to carried away an accidentally kills ya, but that wouldn't be for a _loooooong_ time sister. So if I were in your shoes, I'd start thinkin' _reeeeeaal_ carefully about what I might wanna say in the next couple seconds." Said the intruder. His voice was low and smoky and as he undid more of the buttons holding his shirt together it revealed the hard chiseled muscle that coated his body. Trudy felt a rush of exhilaration and lust joining with the sheer terror she felt as she huddled herself back against the head-board of her bed. She was in shock; her mind kept thinking sideways whenever she tried to focus on the situation at hand. She thought about how lonely it was in the big bed she huddled on, or the cravings she had been feeling for a good fucking. Like the handsome rogue currently undoing his shirt with a gun trained on her, it had been a _looooong_ time since she had gotten some last. She started considering his words and what would happen if she waited too long to respond. She could practically _feel_ the heat of his breath on her exposed neck, the roughness of his calloused hands on her vulnerable body, and she quivered at the thought of being mounted and taken by this outlaw.

The powder-ganger's shirt was almost free, held together by a sparse two buttons. He stopped there and shot up a look into his victim's eyes, his own dark, hard and nonchalant. The look seemed to say 'last chance'. Trudy hesitated and met his gaze with a terrified and oddly erotic expectancy. He turned back to the last buttons and just before his fingers could find the last one Trudy called out.

"Wait! O-okay! I'll tell you where Ringo is hiding." She said, staring down into her blankets and biting her lip. The Powder Ganger froze and without taking his eyes nor the barrel of his outstretched weapon off of her, he spoke.

"Well?"

"He's hiding in the old gas station up the street…." She said timidly, feeling shame add itself to the maelstrom of lust and terror that had erupted within her breast. The powder ganger stood still for a moment, gazing down at his victim with his hand hovering over the last button in his shirt. He grinned and opened his hands.

"See, now how hard was that?" He said, reaching down and zipping up his fly, the menacing glare of the revolver never wavering from its target. He turned to leave and glanced over his shoulder at Trudy.

"Of course, you realize if you're lying theres three more guys waiting nearby I can call and let me assure you, they will be _far_ less agreeable then I've been." He said in a sharp, lilting tone that belied intelligence and the hint of condescendence that it brought. He started moving forward, towards the door but stopped when Trudy called out after him.

"Wait!..." He stopped and turned to face her. Trudy had spread out on the bed, opening her legs tantalizingly and running a finger along her thigh.

"You got what you wanted….what about what _I_ want?"

The powder ganger's mouth went slack and his eyebrows shot up.

"An' what might that be?"

"Oh don't play coy." She said, her fingers working their way towards the lip of her underwear. The powder ganger looked uncertain and suspicious, shoot a hesitant glance to the front door.

"Whats the matter?" Trudy crooned, "Forget how to please a woman? Or did you go queer in jail? That it? You got a _daddy_ waitin' for you back at camp?" His face turned dour and he walked up to the bed and took her roughly by the hair before throwing her back into the head board. Trudy moaned and laced her hands through the pillows she had stacked on at the head of her bed as the powder ganger tore his clothes off in a frenzy. He was so busy, in fact, that he failed to notice that Trudy had retrieved her revolver from its place beneath her pillow and now had it cocked and hovering a scarce few inches from the powder ganger's face.

"Mmmm, hey lover boy?' He glanced up and found himself staring down the barrel of her gun.

"Go fuck yourself." She said, squeezing the trigger and blowing the mans head to pieces. Trudy sat there, frozen as the man's headless corpse sat upright for a moment before toppling over the edge of the bed and landing with a hard thud. The shot left her ears ringing and a spurt of blood had splashed on her face. In a daze, the gun toppled from her hand and clattered to the ground. When she looked at her hand, she saw that it was shaking. She crawled to the edge of the bed and gazed over at the body, almost frightful that it might suddenly spring to life and attack. It didn't. She rolled over to the other side and swung her legs out over the edge. When she tried to rise however, her legs went weak and she collapsed to the ground. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment when she hit the floor but snapped open when she felt something hot and wet touch her cheek. She jerked back and saw the the bloodied stump that was her attacker's face had leaked blood all the way under her bed. She tried to rise once more but stumbled to her knees and felt the contents of her stomach roil before spilling out on the ground before her. She fought to her feet, leaning heavily on the wall as she staggered from her bedroom into the bathroom.

With numb fingers she splashed the ice cold water in the wash stand on her face, washing the blood and vomit from her cheek and chin before slipping the bath robe hanging on a rack on and walking back out into her living room. A bottle of scotch sat out on the coffee table and she poured herself a glass. She tilted it up to her lips, sipping lightly at first before taking in a mouthful with a hard swallow, feeling the stinging burn of the liquor drop all the way into her stomach. It shocked her some, snapped her out of the hazy dreamland she had slipped into. It had all happened so quickly, and she was still surprised that her ruse had worked. She felt shame at the craving she had felt for the dead man.

_Its been a loooong time since I'd gotten some. Hell, I can't even remember who it was. Sunny would probably know better than I would-_

Trudy felt her heart skip a beat as the scotch glass slipped from her numb fingers and shattered on the floor.

_Oh god, Sunny._


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Strangers In The Night**

"How much further?"

"I don't know." The Mysterious Man shot his mate a skeptical look and hitched up the burden of the man sprawled across his shoulder. Miss Fortune shot her husband a heated look from over the silken veil.

"I'm a psychic, not a damned compass." The man rolled his eyes and trudged onward through the sands and rough scrub bushels that dotted the Mojave's expanse.

Miss Fortune cleared her throat and felt a flush of embarrassment at the biting tone in her voice.

"How did he get so far in his condition?" She said in an attempt to lighten the mood.

The Mysterious Man hummed a few bars of a song before speaking.

"You're guess is good as mine. I suppose he's lucky he just stumbled into some desert trash instead of a deathclaw, or worse, Caesar and his _Legion_."

"Do you think Caesar would remember him?"

"Probably not, and I doubt he would ever look too closely at a new slave. At any rate, I find it hard to believe falling into slavery or being inducted into the shock troops would be conducive to our ultimate goal."

This gave his wife pause for a moment and she spared a hesitant glance for the waning moon which was beginning to rise to its perch above the Mojave.

"We need to hurry."

"I still don't like this."

"I know you don't, but what other choice do we have? It is not our place to alter the flow events, for better or worse. We are only the proponents of fate my love, not its masters." The Mysterious Man scowled.

"Hmph. If only you could convince our son of the same."

"_Jeremy_ has simply lost his way. Can you blame him? You've said it yourself; the path we walk is not an easy one. His vulnerabilities got the better of him and he took off. The way he saw it, we abandoned him and he's not wrong. That's no reason to forget him. He may still play a part in this yet."

"And I thought you said you couldn't see Jack's future for certain."

"I said he _may_ play a part my dear." The Mysterious man grunted in response and hiked up his burden on his shoulder.

"…This guy is heavy."

"Whining won't make him any lighter, my love."

"Are you sure we should just give it to him? Right now? I mean, how do we know he won't just run around blasting holes in people with it?"

"I saw him with it in my vision. He killed several of those Powder-Gangers. A pity, though."

"What?"

"He won't be in time to save the poor girl."

Trudy quickly dressed herself but couldn't bring herself to look at the dead man staining her carpet. She would have to deal with him at some point but for right then the moment was too fresh in her mind and there were bigger problems at hand. She pulled over a blue spotted dress and snatching up her revolver and a box of rounds, she darted out the door glancing cautiously about before taking off running into the desert in the opposite direction that she had come, towards where Sunny lived. She ran briskly down the street, a veritable horror show flickering through her thoughts as to what could be happening to her friend and confidant. She saw the big man, the leering bald one roughly tearing the clothes from her back before pinning her down with his big hands and- she slapped herself to tear the grisly scene from her thoughts.

Soon she was passing her saloon, the Prospector. The lights were all off and the door was still locked so she hadn't doubled back to the bar if she ran into trouble. Trudy kept the pace up, heart thundering in her ears as she tore down the street towards Sunny's house. She passed by the rough path to Doc Mitchell's house, the beaten dirt barely visible in the moonlight and saw to her surprise that the lights inside were on. Frantically, she ran up the step before pounding on the battered door that had been hastily reattached to its hinges the day before. The door fell flat on the ground from her pummeling and she poked her head inside to call out for the doctor. There was no answer and Trudy felt her heart plummet as she returned to the road. Her legs and chest burned and her muscles were twitchy and felt ready to give out at any moment as she picked up her pace once more. The road angled sharply past the run-down gas station and Trudy had to fight down the urge to go to Ringo for help. Bringing him out would only bring the rest of the Powder-Gangers down on Goodsprings. She had to stop for a moment, to catch her breathe when she heard a boot crunching down on sand behind her.

She whirled around, revolver snapped up in trembling hands as she regarded the heavy hanging Darkness of the Desert. A familiar voice called out from the desert and a familiar old man came walking out of the shadows with his hands up.

"Whoa there Trudy, take it easy! It's me, Mitch!" Trudy leered into the darkness for a moment, trying to discern whether it really was the doctor or not. After a moment, she had decided that he was and lowered her gun.

"Scared me half to death you did! What are you doin' running around this hour of the night waving a piece around at everyone who-"

"Doc listen to me!" She said, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him in close.

"I was just attacked at home; one of the Powder-gangers was waiting for me Doc. In my _house_ . They know where we live Doc, they knew right where to find me and when I'd be there. We need to find Sunny, have you seen'er Doc?"

"Sunny? Yeah, I saw'er not twenty minutes ago, headin' towards the water source. Ran into'er while I was lookin' for my patient."

"Your patient? You mean the one with the hole in his head?"

"Yeah. I…uh…drank a lil' too much at the bar earlier and when I got home I sorta dosed while we were out in the yard an' when I woke up.." Trudy laid a hand on the doctor's shoulder.

"Alright, then after we find Sunny then we can go lookin' for the dead guy now lets go!" She barked, dragging the aged man by his sleeve back the way she had come before turning off the road and heading towards Goodspring's water source.

Sunny trudged on through the night towards the water tower on the outskirts of Goodsprings, -Cheyenne close at heel.

She sighed, hefting up the sling of her varmint rifle. It was a .22, a banged up, dusty old thing but it did well enough against the geckos and coyotes prowling about. Sunny felt her leather armor chaffing at the cinch and she hissed as she loosened the belt strap. Cheyenne froze midstep and shot her ears up as Sunny walked by. A low growl from behind her caused Sunny to pause. The varmint rifle she looped over her head and snapped it to her shoulder, scanning the inky blackness with the barrel of her weapon.

"Who's there?" She barked. Sunny Smiles was accustomed to the harsh realities of wasteland life and this would not be the first time she found herself attacked in the dead of night. Slavers, Raiders, or sickos she'd shot them all dead or gotten away somehow. This night, however, would be different.

_A man's got needs, after all. _

Lou Eriks edged his way out of the darkness until he was standing just a sparse few feet from Sunny, hands up, palms out and a nervous smile on his bald, ugly face.

"I-I'm sorry sweet heart, I just got a li'l turned around after leavin' the saloon, a fine establishment might I add, and I was wonderin'," He said, edging a little closer,  
"Which way is it to the long-75? " Sunny scowled and pointed with her free hand, the other never leaving the trigger guard and the barrel never deviated from his midsection.

_It HAD to be him….the creepy one…_Something about his story just felt…wrong.

"Head down that way 'till you hit the road, then follow it until you hit…" Sunny took a slight step back.

"Back at the bar….You said you came _up_ the 75…" The nervous smile twitched downward at the corner before snapping back up.

"Did I say that? Must'ah been the booze talkin.." Sunny snapped her varmint rifle up and centered the sights on the ogre's chest.

"Uh-uh. You said that at first call asshole." She said, stepping back quickly. She spared a quick glance about for Cheyenne but her deputy was nowhere to be found.

_Man's best friend my ass._

The leering giant dropped his hands to his sides as a sullen smirk spread across his features.

"I was hopin' you'd make this easy sweetie." He said, kindly outtatowner act dropped and replaced by the dull, uneducated drawl of his voice and the shaky, cold smile that had spread across his features.

"I was gonna be _reeeeaaal_ nice. Be gentle even'. I still can be, if you let me." He said, advancing slowly through the desert towards her. Sunny brought the varmint rifle up but the big man reached and seized hold of the barrel of the gun, wrenching it to the size just as she pulled the trigger. The heat singed his hand and Lou loosed a roar before slamming his foot into the base of Sunny's midsection and tearing the rifle from her hands and hurling it into the night. Sunny fell to the ground and as the giant raged at his burnt palm she began crawling away.

"Where do ya' think your goin'!?" He roared, reaching down and taking hold of her ankle. As his fat, burly fingers closed about her heel, however, Sunny sat bolt upright and slashed at his meaty hands with a large slightly rusted combat knife. Blood shot out of his left forefinger in short angry spurts as the top portion of it was slashed off by the knife's serrated edge and the big rapist rose up from his victim and screamed. But not in pain. No, the big man screamed with excitement and exhilaration; it had been a long time since he felt the sharp, biting sting of pain and seen the sight of his own blood. He felt blood rushing to his extremities and he suddenly felt a blinding ecstasy take hold of him as he moved to pounce once more on the prostrated Sunny. She rolled deftly to the side and leapt to her feet , letting the bumbling ogre sail to the ground. She kicked the big man hard in the throat while he struggled to rise from his hands and knees. He loosed a hoarse shout but wrapped his arms tight about Sunny's leg and whipped her to the ground.

The big man pinned her beneath him and reached down to tear her leather armor piece from her chest but drew back when she swung up at him with the knife. She took the blade in two hands and moved to stab the blade up at his chest but the ogre was too fast. He caught her wrists and stopped the thrust when the blade was a sparse several inches from his body. With a morose giggle Lou pushed the blade back before squeezing as hard as he could, crushing her hands against the pommel of the knife and forcing her to drop it. Almost drooling, he dropped to his hands and knees and once more brought his hands to her clothes before feeling the point of her knee slamming into his balls. He let out a pained howl and crumpled to the ground, hands grasping at his manhood. Leaping to her feet, Sunny took off running, battered body screaming in pain as she tried to get up a good pace for her escape. Some feet behind her Lou had struggled back to his feet and began to give chase, though he had no chance of catching her on foot as she tore off into the desert. She stopped dead in her tracks though a few yards away. Edging in out of the darkness were four more men, dressed in Powder-Ganger garb and bearing pool cues and bats. And, she realized as an icy lump formed in her throat, a rather large length of rope. They wore contempt on their face in knowing smirks or eager grins.

_Oh god no…Not like this.. _She thought to herself, backing slowly away from the men that were approaching. At her back, the pained giant had fought to his feet and was now making his way over to where she stood. Sunny thought about making a run for it, she thought about just running as far and as fast as her legs could carry her but she dismissed the thought. They were too close now and she was too tired to sustain the type of exertion that could carry her away from these men to safety. Sighing she condemned herself to her fate. The four men tried to reach her before the lumbering giant could but Lou snatched the girl away from them at the last minute.

"Uh-uh assholes, finders keepers. You can get sloppy seconds, now shut up and hold the bitch down." Sunny felt numb as the men set about stripping her armor off, followed by worn cotton t-shirt and battered bra as well. The prisoners drooled over her C-cups. She wasn't there; the voices and sensations came from a place that seemed far away, as though happening to someone else. The big man squeezed her breast and she hissed in disgust, bringing her back to the present just in time to witness the giant dropping his drawers and running a grimy, rough hand down her stomach towards her belt-line.

"I was gonna be gentle." He whispered in her ear. His free hand took hold of a great clump of her red hair and roughly jerked it back.

"But then you cut me you fuckin' whore." He said, undoing her belt and whipping it off into the desert before coming back to haul at her jeans. The men with him spread her legs slightly but never lost their iron grip as he moved to lift her hips and pull her pants and under wear off.

"So now, Imma make _you bleed bitch."_

As her jeans began passing her hips, however, there came a sharp _bang_ from somewhere off in the desert. The Powder-Gangers froze mid-strip, eyes and ears straining for whatever had made the affronting noise. But there was nothing but darkness surrounding them, and only the whistle of the wind broke the silence. Sunny was in another dimension, watching events through somebody else's eyes. She felt tender and exposed sitting there half-naked surrounded by sweaty, disgusting men preparing to force themselves on her. It had been a dreadfully long time since she had last let a man into her bed. Now, they were going to let themselves in. All five of them probably. Right there, on the rough, dirty ground of the desert.

How long would it take for someone to find her body the next morning? How long before they would even start looking? It wasn't like she'd told anyone she had decided to go for a short patrol, aside from Doc Mitchell, but he was so busy trying to find his patient that there was little chance he'd come stumbling along. And even if he did, she thought dejectedly, there wasn't much that he could do against five vicious former-convicts. A hard tug at her waist forced her back to the present as her panties were violently torn off. The hot desert wind that had begun blowing was cold on her pussy as the two Powder-Gangers hauled her legs apart, the bulge of burgeoning erections apparent in their tattered and dirty prison jumpers.

Lou Eriks thrusted Sunny's stolen drawers into his face and took a long, deep smell. _This._ This was the most excited he'd been in decades. His whole body was alight with a savage mixture of pleasure and pain coursing from his loin and his bleeding wounds. He realized that he had begun breathing heavy and salivating, a dense sheen of sweat on his brutish face. His heart was pounding, his victims were numerous but _none_ had ever put up a fight quite like this one. His predatory mind was fascinated with this one. He decided he wouldn't kill her. No, this one he would keep; bring her with him back to camp. She would be his and his alone until he had stripped the beauty from her body, torn the life and light from her twinkling hazel eyes. When she was nothing more than a husk devoid of life or feeling, he would throw her to the others and search for a new one.

The bloodied knub of his finger still bled freely. He leaned in and licked the significant trickle of blood running down his palm. The other Powder-Gangers blanched but didn't slacken their grip on Sunny's arms and legs as the giant began slipping out of his jumpsuit, slipping arms out first before kicking off the legs. He stood completely nude in the middle of the desert, the unsightly bulge of his stomach compounded by the numerous open sores and scares that littered his body. As he began approaching, marred hand wrapped about his flaccid dick, Sunny suddenly came thundering back from whatever dimensions she had been exiled to and began to struggle against her captors, managing to loose a foot and kick a Powder-Ganger in the face before he pinned her leg down and one of the men holding her arms slammed his fist into her face twice. The world began to spin for Sunny as she slipped into semi-consciousness. She knew what was to follow, but was numb to the world. Someone else had their head propped up to see the naked giant lumbering towards them. Someone else felt their legs forced open as he approached. Black stars exploded on the edge of her vision as Lou ran a hand down one of her thighs. Her skin crawled as she felt the warm, sticky trail of blood his maimed finger left behind run down her leg before being licked off by the lumbering rapist. She wanted to cry, to scream, to beg them to stop but the strength was no longer in her and the words died in her dry throat. Lou postured up then, taking hold of her ankles, he leaned in close, quivering with anticipation. Sunny felt his hot, foul breath on her body and dark haze that had enveloped her sight tightened.

_Maybe its better this way; not to see, not to feel….Will they kill me? Do I _want_ them to? _There came a loud growl followed by howls of pain. Sunny fought past the dark haze to pick her head up to see what was happening. Cheyenne had appeared from the shadows and lunged forward, latching her teeth on the nude man's hamstring. Lou staggered back, screaming as Goodspring's deputy tore through the flesh and muscle in his leg. He screamed and went toppling to the ground. As he began to fall, for another shadow in that black night time had frozen. There was a brief flash in the inky blackness of the desert in twilight and a swift, hot wind despite the chill of the desert night came roaring through the darkness. In the instant before he struck the ground, Lou felt the hot breath on the nape of his neck, scratching and tearing before thundering past him.

At this particular time, Sunny felt a splash of something thick and warm. She felt the arms supporting her weaken before dropping her roughly to the stones and dust on the desert floor. She wheezed as she landed on a large, pointed stone and tried to roll off it but bumped into something heavy and soft lying beside her on the ground. She stared at the man. He was alive, but not for much longer; blood was flowing freely from a sizeable hold in his throat. Indeed, the round must've been quite large for much of the man's trachea had been splintered and torn to pieces during the bullet's exit. He was fighting to draw breath around the blood that had begun rushing out his mouth and running down into his lungs as his life bubbled away out the gaping hole in his throat. If she had the strength, she might've stolen the man's club and set upon the others, but as it was she was beaten, freezing, in shock and very much teetering on the border of consciousness. Not that it mattered much; Lou had thumped to the ground and after delivering a swift kick had sent Cheyenne running back into the darkenss and now stared in disbelief at his soon to be dead ally. The other three men quickly moved to scatter, but as one moved to take off into the desert, a round punched clean through his throat in a spray of gore and blood. The two remaining men and Lou took off running and threw themselves to the ground behind a large rock formation.

"What the fuck WAS THAT?!" Screamed one of the Powder-Gangers, fumbling into his grimy pockets for the compact .38 snub nose revolver he carried.

"It's just some prick with a rifle, getta' hold ah' yourself!" Lou whispered, grabbing the man by his collar.

"We gotta stay low, wait for him to get comfy and start crawlin' back to-"

"NO!" The nude giant bellowed, slamming him roughly up against the rocks.

"We're gonna get the bitch, and bring'er back with us." He said calmly.

"What!? Are you outta' your fuckin' mind!? That guy just dropped Anders and Mikey faster than I could fuckin' blink! You think I'm goin' back out there for some broad then-"He was cut off as Lou buried his foot in the man's rib cage and sent him flying from behind the rock formation. As the Powder Ganger flew through the air another two _BANG_s roared from somewhere in the night, blowing out two gory holes in the prostrated man's chest before he even reached the ground.

"Holy Fuckin Christ! This is it man, _this_ is the Wrath a' God! It's the End Times!" Screamed the remaining clothed Powder-Ganger. With some disdain Lou realized the man had wet himself.

"Oh….shit." He murmured.

"What!?" The Powder-Ganger stammered around his words until he was able to spit them out.

"He…He's comin… Just walkin…Walkin over."

Lou poked his head over the rock and saw that this was true. Walking, almost casually through the desert was a man. His visage was concealed by the thick gauze bandages wrapped about his head and he was bare to his midriff, bloodied wounds from some earlier conflict still visible despite the grime of sweat and dust caked on his body. Trail dust coated his frayed jeans and the rough leather boots he wore as well. In his right hand, smoking at the barrel and glittering murderously in the weak moonlight was a large revolver. It was a black thing, the weapon this specter carried, with silver inlays and groves running the length of the barrel before coming to the cylinder which had gold tracks forming a zig-zag pattern. Its size was almost unwieldy; as it was the weapon ran six inches in barrel length alone, but it had a large stabilizer box surrounding the length of barrel as well.

Lou tightened his grasp on his last remaining ally in this fight.

"Listen'ta me. We're gonna git this guy. We're gonna git'em, we're gonna kill'em and then, we're gonna bring that bitch back to the camp. Just…Just wait till' he gets a lil' closer, you start shootin' an' I'll git'em." The Powder-ganger looked hesitant, but wasn't willing to argue with the naked hulk and nodded in agreement. He took a deep breath, thumbed the safety on his snub nose off and jumped up from behind the rocks, snapping his weapon up and firing three shots. But there was no-one there, the desert stretched onward uninterrupted. There came a thunderous click and the Powder-Ganger glanced down. Jack was seated at the foot of the formation, back against the rocks staring straight up, weapon outstretched in his hands. The weapon and its target were so close the man could read the words _Mateba Unica 6 Cacciatore_ running down the barrel's length.

"Well, did ya-" was all Lou could get out before the night was once again pierced by a vengeful thunderclap. Lou staggered back as he was slapped in the face by a spray of gore as his last remaining companion's head exploded outward. Lou staggered back, his ears ringing from the weapon discharge. Lou didn't believe this to be the wrath of god. No, a patrol from town perhaps or maybe an NCR dispatch but as his assailant scaled the rocks and dropped down on the other side, Lou found his mind changing. The enigmatic assassin walked forward towards his target slowly, Mateba shining dangerously in the moonlight. Lou fought his way back to his feet and stood to face the approaching specter. Blood had spattered across the thick gauze wrapped about his face, adding a grisly shade to the coverings. Lou took a staggered step forward, swinging his paw in a hook. Jack stepped forward however, going limp against the forward moving bulge of the big man's arm and narrowly slipping by the massive fist. He folded in tight against the nude rapist, looping his ankle around the other man's and striking upward with the point of his elbow, sending the ogre tumbling to the ground before springing back up to his feet. The bandaged faced man circled slowly, weapon held tight at his side. The lumbering giant began backing away from his attacker.

"What..what the hell _are you?"_

Jack said, and continuing . Lou wasn't willing to enter into another fist fight with the specter and found himself inching back as the man drew nearer and nearer. The nude rapist found that the whole world had been turned on its head; instead of the hunter, he was now the hunted. The various scrapes, scratches and wounds he had suffered throughout the night had gone from producing a shimmering wave of ecstasy to one of pain. His finger burned where it had cut off, his ribs and jaw were both pounding and swelling from the onslaught of strikes he had just received from the mysterious avenger that the black night had produced. Jack suddenly leapt forward, springing off his back foot and cocking his free hand back to deliver a heavy handed straight punch just as a piercing shriek rang out.

"OH NO NONONONONONO, ohhhh god no! SUNNY!" Trudy shouted, coming sprinting in out of the darkness to settle on her knees next to her friend.

"Ohgodohgodohgod…C'mon Sunny, wake up, WAKE UP!" She shouted, slapping her friend repeatedly until the hazel eyes set in her head came into focus. When Jack turned his head back to face his enemy he found instead the lumbering giant's fist coming bearing down. The massive paw connected square with his chin and sent the bandaged faced man sprawling to the dirt as the lumbering rapist turned and took off running in to the night. Jack was back on his feet almost as quick however, heavy Mateba snapping up tight in his grip. He centered the running ogre between the tru-glow dots and heaved the hammer back. He hesitated for a moment, target dead center of the sights. His hands trembled slightly as the hammer set into firing position. The bandaged faced man took in a deep breath and finished pulling the trigger. The hammer started falling forward, thundering towards the waiting chamber.

_CLICK._ _CLICK CLICK CLICK._ Jack stared in disbelief at the weapon held tight in his grip, its chambers full of empty cases. With an almost inaudible sigh, he stooped down and heft a stone just smaller than his fist and hurled it upward and outward into the night. Turning, he walked slowly back to the rock formation that just moments ago was being used as cover by the remaining Powder-Gangers.

He settled atop the rocks and watched with disinterestedly as Trudy and Doc Mitchell hovered over Sunny. She had returned to consciousness, though for how long was questionable. Trudy stroked the dust and blood from her friend's hair and stifled the tears that begged to run forth.

"Sunny I…" She stammered and choked around tne words in her throat. Sunny loosed a hoarse laugh.

"No worries buttercup." Sunny muttered.

"I'm right as rain on the plain."

Doc. He prepped a sedative and a stimpak before plunging the first into her arm and sending her into a warm doze, numbing her body to fast acting healing of the Stimpak. As she slipped off into the murky darkness that came sweeping forward she stared up at the man seated on the rock formation, cradling the heavy Mateba in his grip.

"H….ey stranger…." She nodded off then. Doc Mitchell turned his head and nearly died of shock when he saw his patient.

"Jack, is that you?"

"48." Said the bandaged faced man, slipping down from the rocks onto the rough sands of the Mojave. It was then that the doctor and Trudy noticed the dead men laying clustered about , big smoking .45 holes blown in their bodies.

"Jesus…Did…did_ he _do this?" She muttered, looking over the bloodied desert specter. He had begun humming a few bars of a song. It was lost on Trudy, but having been a Vault boy, Doc Mitchell knew it quite well. It had been playing during the school dance where he and his wife to be met.

Far away, on a dusty out cropping, the Mysterious man and his lover sat perched on a small outcropping, leering down at the grisly scene through a night scope.

"This…Was not how it was meant to be." Said Miss Fortune in awe struck tones.

"Sunny Smiles was to die and Lou Eriks as well! He could barely shoot straight in my visions, and the 10mm we gave him earlier couldn't possibly be that accurate over such a long range!" The Mysterious Man cleared his throat.

"I… stole Jeremy's revolver from me."  
"What?!" Just before I turned him loose, he leapt up, yanked it outta my coat, let off a shot and then took off running towards the Powder-Gangers. I couldn't risk exposing myself to stop him. I hoped it wouldn't change things but…" Miss Fortune ran a finger over his lips.

"Anything can change everything my darling. A ripple in the pond can turn to a raging tidal wave later on if not closely watched….I must meditate on this, divine the next step. But first there is the business in the Capital Wastes to attend to."

"The Jameson girl?"

"Yes. In a week Werhner will start broadcasting his help signal, as we instructed him to. She will come not long after that. We need to lay the seeds of the revolt if our plans for the Pitt are to come to Fruition."

"So then what of the Courier?"

"He will have to stand on his own for now. If things remain unchanged by this night, he will regain consciousness in about a week."

"When will the Powder-Gangers attack?"

"A week after that." Replied Miss Fortune.

"Then there is no time to lose." The Mysterious man and his wife turned and began trekking out towards the vast Capital Wasteland, where the intrepid young daughter of an intrepid deceased scientist was seated in her dingy little home in Megaton. Inside the darkened bar of the Prospector Saloon, a mole rat had begun tunneling its way beneath the saloon, and as it hit one of the foundation studs, the antique radio on the edge of the bar counter fell and bounced twice on the hard wood flooring, coming to life briefly and tuning in to the last station listened to. The smooth, deep voice of Frank Sinatra crooned out until the radio flickered dark once more.

_Strangers in the night _

_Two lonely people, we were strangers in the night _

_Up to the moment when we said our first hello little did we know _

_Love was just a glance away, a warm embracing dance away _

_and _

_Ever since that night we've been together _

_Lovers at first sight, in love forever _

_It turned out so right…. for strangers in the nighttttt….._


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Days Gone By **

"_I'm so sick of this shit Jack! You're never fucking home, do you even remember what your son looks like? How about his birthday? You missed his first word last week you son-of-a-bitch! Do you even fucking care? Jack. Jack! JACK!" _

Doc Mitchell hovered over his patient who thrashed about in the throes of some vicious nightmare. Five days had passed since the blood drenched night he and Trudy had stumbled across Jack and Sunny. And…the Powdergangers. Stimpaks had fixed Sunny up quickly and had her home the next day. At the though he frowned. When she came to, she acted as though nothing had happened. She _smiled _at him for christsake. She was beaten and bruised all about her body but aside from a few welts, minor gashes and a concussion. But…she lacked the bruising swelling and…_other_ signs of sexual assault. He couldn't bring himself to ask her for her recollection of the night, not with the way she was carrying on. As he regarded his thrashing patient the doctor again found himself trying to figure out who the man with the hole in his head was. He had killed those men, or so it seemed. The big auto-revolver full of empties held tight in his grip seemed to attest to that fact. The usually vocal Mr. Derricks was silent on the trip home and once the doctor had gotten Sunny inside and begun triage he had laid down on the couch in the living room and fallen fast asleep. A week later, he was still there. The wounds he had gotten through the course of wherever his travels had taken him were minor but he was unconscious nonetheless. All attempts to transfer him to the operating room resulted in violent thrashing and after a time the doctor relented and wheeled his equipment into the living room.

A week had passed since then, and Jackson Derricks wasn't the only one losing sleep in the town of Goodsprings. Word about what had happened to Sunny and Trudy had gotten out and the farmers and settlers of Goodsprings found their eyes open to the threat the Powdergangers served. Doc sighed and turned to face the window. Off in the distance, he saw two men holding guns at hip level walking about. The townsfolk had put up a guard, but they were little more than farmers with varmint rifles. Still, it gave the town some ease knowing that there was someone out there watching. Sunny was taking a vacation…And if the rumors were true then she was bunking up with Trudy as well. Sighing, the doctor settled into a chair and eyed his patient for a moment before sipping at his bland tea. There came a knock at the door and Doc Mitchell rose and walked over. The thing was battered and half off its frame from his sloppy repair job but that bastard over at the General Store's prices were outrageous.

He turned the knob and opened the door to see two men toting shotguns on his doorstep. They were locals.

"Afternoon Doc. Hows everything?"

"Good. Haven't seen or heard nothin' all day." Jack slipped into a particularly violent thrash that rattle the gurney about and the farmers peeked inside to get a look at the man. The town was monotonous at best and the news had sent whispers about the patient in Doc Mitchell's care rushing all the way from the General Store to the settlers and Saloon frequenters and even the older, more tight lipped citizens found themselves entranced. The bandaged faced man had become a bit of a local hero, and Doc had to admit it did make for a damned good tale. Mysterious loner, half dead saves the Sherriff and kills some bandits? Sounded like an old cowboy story, but in this new world the old doctor supposed that anything was possible.

"Alright Doc, I guess we'll leave ya to it. Take care and give us a holler if you see anything."

"Will do." As the door clicked shut behind them, Doc Mitchell ran a hand over his balding scalp and turned around to see that his patient was sitting straight up and locking eyes with him.

The Doctor was stood in stunned silence for a moment before rushing to his patient's side.

"Whoa, easy now. You've been under for a while now, you need to give your muscles time to adjust. Here, lets have those bandages off." Once he had the bandaged faced man settled, he set about unwrapping the gauze covering. He had stitched the man up as best he could, took a guess at his hair color and set the AutoDoc to work before handling the more precise procedures himself. As the bandages fell away, he saw a man perhaps in his late twenties, early to mid-thirties. His eyes were a swirling, almost calming cerulean and his hair was jet black, from what the doctor could see of his facial hair. For style, well he didn't think it mattered much but his AutoDoc had a nasty glitch that wiped every available haircut except a narrow mohawk. He had a sloping romano nose, a solid, square chin and high cheekbones. He was a looker, that much was for sure, but a number of scars spotted his visage, the most notable of which being a long, narrow line running from just underneath his left eye. As if on cue those aquatic eyes raised to find his own and the doctor noted of something approaching clarity in his gaze.

"Can you understand me?" Doc Mitchell found himself praying that the man did not say forty two.

"Yeah." Jack muttered, his voice dray and raspy. The aged doctor's face lit up and he smiled at his patient.

"Well, looks like you've actually come too this time! Gave us quite a scare for a while there."

"What?"

"We'll talk about that later. For now, we need to do a few tests, make sure that everythings' still workin' right in that head of yours. Think you're up for that?"

"Yeah, okay."

"Now just let me know if we start to go too fast, can you remember your name?

"Uhh, I dunno two bears hi-fiving?" Doctor Mitchell blinked and turned to gaze at the final Rorschach test.

"Everyone says that but I don't see it. Anyway, I guess that means you're more or less healed. How do you feel?"

"I dunno," Said Jack, rolling his shoulder to get the kinks out "everything kinda hurts. And my head is _fucking killing me._"

"Well, you did just recover from a terminal case of being _shot in the face_. _Twice_. Now let me get this straight, you really don't remember _anything? _Anything at all?"

Jack ran a hand over his face, wiping at the beads of sweat that had formed.

"I…" He remembered lying in the desert. Remembered the binds, the faces, the Khans, the Chip but more than anything else he remembered a _checkered suit and a gaudy 9mm._ They stood out, loose and fragmented but he _knew _that they meant something, that they were significant but why was just out of reach.

"Whoa, easy there son, don't push yourself too hard. You need to take it easy. Why don't you have a lie down and when you're feelin' up to it we'll take a stroll over to the Vigor tester."

"Yeah, that sounds good…I don't think I got your name."

"Its Mitchell, but most folks around here call me Doc."

"Well then thanks Doc." His patient muttered drowsily before settling in on the couch.

And just like that, Jackson Derricks fell fast asleep. This time however, he slept soundly, no thrashing, no spasm, just calm rest.

Doc Mitchell stood and regarded Jack, the _man_, no longer his _patient_. He had to admit he felt…robbed. He was expecting so much more, tales of intrigue and fighting much like his own youth. As much as he tried to play down the stories that had evolved almost into legends of his and his wife's exploits the people of Goodsprings still told a couple of the good ones every now and again. Doc Mitchell in his old age had very much liked the adventurous young people he had come across every now and then. He was always keen to dispense advice and swap stories. In truth, if he had been in good health and had his assistant not have run off to the Strip he would've left GoodSprings when Michelle died. But he couldn't bring himself to leave. The little town had become home during her long struggle with sickness. His hands tightened into fists at the thought before he dismissed the thoughts and returned to his original line of thought. He was done blaming himself.

From where he lay on the couch, Jackson Derricks dozed lightly. Perhaps the first restful sleep he'd gotten since his untimely resurrection. Because although his brain was in tatters, he still _dreamt_. The dreams were unforgiving and harsh. He saw blood. He saw _war_. In all its forms. Cracking skulls, blowing heads off, stabbing a man to death and watching the life drain out of his eyes…every time though, the dream came to a thundering end as numbers exploded in the night sky, blooming clouds of fire and light, illuminating themselves before erasing everything in a nuclear flash. 42.

_42_

_44_

_48_

But at the end of it all, just before he snapped his eyes awake, born a second time, he saw a boy. He was young; couldn't be any older than three or four. He was dressed in rough caravaners clothes, complete with a child sized wide brim hat. He was perched on a simple wooden table strewn about with dried food stuffs and empty cups. It was raining outside, the rare kind of booming storm that would strike in Maxson. The child had a grim look on his face as rain beat against the window.

"You have to promise me." There was a booming crash of thunder outside.

"Alan…I-"

"Promise!"

"…Okay. I promise. No more killing."

In a dingy, beat to shit gas station, a man settled in on a worn folding chair and began counting out his Caravan deck for the thousandth time. He'd been hiding out there for-what, it had to be going on his second week now- and it was murder just staying put, all day every day. If it weren't for the narrow firing slits he had made in the two by fours boarding the windows he wouldn't even know whether it was day or night. Sunny would usually drop by to check on him, chat, maybe throw a hand or two of Caravan and drop off some food, but for the past week it had been some of the armed men patrolling Goodsprings stopping by. They were always stone faced and taciturn but sometimes Trudy would stop by as well. She wasn't much for talk, and usually just gave him some food, asked if he'd seen anything and then went on her way. She seemed jumpy, like she expected attack at any moment. She wasn't seen outside her house without her Cattleman's Revolver, the bulk of the .357 strapped to her hip evident at all times. It was about time for Trudy to make her stop but she was late. He sighed and settled his feet up on the crude desk and began fiddling with his nine millimeter. He heard footsteps coming up the drive and he jumped up to his feet centering his sights on the door. Trudy slipped inside and shut the door tight behind her.

"Here Ringo….I brought you some food and water…Charred gecko, same as always."

Ringo nodded but didn't take the supplies right away; he didn't want to seem greedy. Indeed, he was beginning to feel that his presence in Goodsprings was less and less wanted as time went by. Trudy moved to leave but hovered by the door for a moment. Ringo felt a burning question that he had to ask.

"Miss Trudy? I was wonderin'…Why hasn't Miss Sunny stopped by recently?"

Trudy frowned and turned to face him, arms crossed.

"Because she's too fucking terrified to even set foot outside of my house! Oh, that's right, you don't even fucking know. We got _attacked last week_, me and her, by the fucking Powder Gangers. They were trying to find out where _you were_. They...fucking raped her…you son of a bitch….Doc Mitchell might say they didn't fuck her, but that girl is _fucked up now._ She can't go outside. We tried but she just fucking broke down…Listen Ringo, you're a nice guy and we're good folks but we you can't stay here. We need you gone, and we need the Powder Gangers to _know_ you're gone." To his credit, Ringo swallowed hard and set his pistol on the counter. He'd been expecting this.

"When?"

"I don't fuckin' know, soon. Its gotta be some way that lets the Powder Gangers know you aren't here anymore, so they stop fuckin' with us."

"…Gimme another week."

"I don't-"

'Just seven days for my wounds to heal. I can't risk goin' to that doctor and he can't risk comin' here. Seven days and I'm gone. I'll call out Cobb, maybe take a couple shots at'em and run off into the desert. Or somethin' like that." Trudy frowned and regarded the man for a moment. She didn't dislike him, but he was a threat to the entire town so long as he was here and they'd already stuck their necks out for long enough.

"…Fine. Seven days, you're outta here and takin' you're trouble with you."

Sunny Smiles rose from her position on the couch. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and cleared her throat. She rose to her feet and walked to the bathroom. Her business done, she walked into the kitchen where there was food, water and an eighth of scotch laid out on the table top. She ate quickly and chose to forgo the liquor. Instead, she walked to the door and gazed out the glass pane.

_Theres no one there. You can stop looking._ But she did anyway. She searched the cupboard in the kitchen, all the rooms, checked the seal on the broken window, all the locks, even the ones upstairs before settling back on the couch and curling up.

_That's not footsteps outside, just the wind. He can't hurt you in here…They can't get you…_

"So why do I have to check all the locks and rooms every half hour. Why can't I sleep at night?..."She pondered to the living room furniture. She shuddered and felt her stomach convulse. She fought hard to keep the food down but she couldn't and so she leapt to her feet and ran to the bathroom as fast as her uneasy legs could carry her. As the contents of her stomach emptied into the porcelain throne, she struggled her way up to the sink and got a look at herself in the mirror. Pale, haggard. Her hair long and stringy. She looked like she'd lost a lot of weight in just a week. But when she looked in the mirror, she saw more than just her reflection. She saw a _victim. _More than the sickness or the weakness or the fear, she felt angry, perched on the chipped porcelain sink, staring into the grimy mirror.

"No more…" She hissed, barely above a hoarse whisper. She said it again, finding strength in her voice.

"No more being afraid.." She rose to stand, leaning on the sink.

"No more whimpering on that fucking couch like a scared little girl." She said, feeling her strength return. She pushed off the sink and looked herself over in the mirror. Her black eye had faded. The bruises and scratches left over from the stimpak's healing were healing nicely as well. But the woman in the mirror still looked wounded, still looked _weak_.

"No…FUCKING MORE!" She roared, slamming her hands down on the porcelain sink, rattling the thing and further cracking it with her renewed strength. She threw her head back and screamed, a long, furious thing, until she could no more and once again had to lean on the sink.

"No…fucking…more" She hissed between gasps. She felt her strength returning. She felt _strong_ again. She was no longer living within the dream world she had been in for a week. The sparks of anger in her exploded into a full on flame of rage. She was going to leave Trudy's house. She was going to send most of the settlers home to their families. She was going to get back on her fucking high horse, sling up a rifle and start keeping this town safe again. She wasn't going to cower on Trudy's couch in her dream world any longer. She couldn't. Not anymore. Her wounds were healed, the ones you could see at least. It was up to her to fix the ones you couldn't. She then proceeded to spew the remaining contents of her stomach into the sink.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: Back Up On That Fucking High-Horse**

"Alright Jackie boy, just sit down and take hold of those paddles there."

"Like this?"

"That's it. Now just wait a minute. The tests will start up soon, so just do what the screen says and we'll see how you do." The Vigor meter cycled screens quickly, listing off statistics and numbers. Doc Mitchell looked on in mixed worry and hope; this would tell whether or not the man even could survive out there in the wastes; if he was in too rough shape then he would need to undergo another procedure under the AutoDoc. But something was different; he had already passed the strength testing and was well through the agility portion. It had been a long time since someone had blazed through the Vigor Meter testing with such speed and before long it was displaying the final scores. Doc Mitchell was stunned and as he looked his patient over, he found the nagging question of just who the man sitting before him was. The results listed off one at a time, the lighted buttons descending to reveal his scores.

Strength: 8

Charisma: 8

Endurance: 8

Agility: 8

Perception: 8

Intelligence: 8

Luck: -1

At the last scored the aged doctor's eyebrows shot up; he didn't even know negatives were possible! As far as he could guess the meter just did a random number generation or a number check or something. The machine began emitting a series of violent bangs, the screens cycling randomly before returning to the home screen and powering down. Jack leapt to his feet off of the stool he was perched on.

"Jesus fucking Christ!"

"Goddammit; I knew that piece a' shit needed work. Ehh, should probably just ignore those readings. From your physical I guess we can say that you're in decent enough shape to go out. You should probably take it easy for a few days, you can stay here for as long as you need to." Jack ran a hand over what was left of his hair, the close cropped sides and the Mohawk running down the middle.

"Thank you Doc…but I don't really have any money or anything so.."

"Don't worry about it kid; I wouldn't turn out someone in your condition but somebody already paid your fare. Hell, and then some." Jack blinked.

"Who?"

"Heh. Not so much of a _who_ as a _what_. His, it's, name is Victor. Its one'a'them securitron robots that you see all over the Strip. This ones different though; got a cowboy 'face' on that monitor and its even got that cowboy movie drawl."

"Wait, you mean he paid for me?" The doctor nodded.

"That's right. Brought you in bleeding 'bout a week ago in the middle of the night. Just dropped off a grand, told me to look after you and-" He briefly considered telling him of Victor's other imperative that night, to keep his survival and location a secret. Victor hadn't been seen since that night, but the idea that there might be people looking for this man troubled the doctor. Then again, he couldn't rightly remember who he was and despite best efforts, he looked different then he had before the surgery; his nose, broken several times had been straightened and mended, some of the more severe scars almost removed entirely, a cracked jaw and pronounced underbite mended and reset. He certainly looked a new man from the bleeding cadaver laying on his surgical table.

Jack had fallen silent, pondering, and the doctor found himself struggling to connect this soft spoken, almost timid man with the bloody desert specter he had seen a week ago. The heavy Mateba autorevolver was set in the gun cabinet next to his shotgun, Jack hadn't mentioned it and the doctor had forgotten about it as well. There came a sharp knock at the door and the two turned to face it. Jack looked jumpy, almost nervous.

"Relax; its probably just the patrol checking in."

"The patrol?"

"Yeah…Goodsprings…ran into some trouble around the same time you came into town. Not that I'm sayin' the two are related, a'course. Helps people sleep at night knowing that theres somebody out there keeping in eye out." Doc Mitchell said, looking over his shoulder as he swung the front door open. It was the usual gaggle of armed farmers and settlers. Only this time, they were huddled about the door, wearing bright smiles and beaming faces.

"Doc! Its Sunny!"

"What! What!"

"No, nothin' like that, shes back out! She says shes gonna go back to patrollin'!" This was followed by a ruckus of cheers and shouts before the lead man's eyes fell on the man standing in the living room.

"Ho-leee shit! Is that him?"

"Who, Jack?" Said Doc Mitchell, cocking a thumb at his patient.

"The guy with the bandages and that big ass gun what kill't those fuckin' Powder Gangers? Y'know Doc, the _Ghost Man_." Jacks eyes widened and he clutched at his scalp where a splitting headache was taking form. Visions rocketed through his mind's eye. It was dark. There was a tall man in a dark coat fumbling about for something in his coat. A gleaming pommel jutted from the shoulder holster and he felt drawn to it. He pried it from the leather holster and as the man in black moved to stop him he had pushed the man back and loosed a round before sprinting off somewhere in the night. He saw men, clustered around a bloodied, battered form laying in the desert sand. He felt something, a stirring from within.

_Kill the bald man_ it whispered. _Kill them all._ He didn't want to; every fiber of his being rebelled but his strides only lengthened and the heavy autorevolver snapped up in his hands. _Bang_ the first shot only grazed his target as the big nude man was brought down by the attacking the dog. As it tore through the other man's throat he changed targets going back to the big man before he and his allies fled behind the rocks. A man leapt out from the side. _Bang Bang_. Another dead. He saw a head poke over the rocks before slipping back down, had to move fast now. Seating himself against the rock, he pointed the gun straight up, as he knew he must. He was sobbing as the Powder Ganger's head sprang up and promptly evaporated in the wake of the heavy round.

_Jack_ the whispers called. _Jack. Jack. JACK. JACK. JAAAACK._

The wounded Courier snapped awake. He was leaned up against the wall, a thick sheen of sweat apparent on his features. Doc Mitchell was shouting his name and trying to help him back to his feet.

"Jesus Jack, are you alright?"

"Yeah I just…" He blew out a shaky breath as he found the strength to stand on his own. He shook his head, deciding against whatever it was he was going to say.

"I'm alright…just a headache is all." The Goodsprings patrol had crowded in as well; apparently word had spread quickly of what had happened that night.

"If you say so." Doc Mitchell said, handing his patient a glass of water. He drank it eagerly, ignoring the gritty taste.

"Hey Ghost Man, somebody wants to talk to you." Said one of the settlers. Jack ran a hand over his scalp. _Ghost Man….?_

"Oh yeah? Who wants him?"

"Its Sunny. When she heard that he was up and about she wanted to meet him." The air hung heavy for a minute before Jack shrugged.

"Alright. I guess if I'm going to be here a while I might as well get to know everyone." Doc Mitchell began taking notes about his patient's demeanor. He spoke confidently and his posture and bearing were strong as well, whatever ailment that struck him before having passed.

"Well I need get ta' fixin' the Vigor tester. You boys bring'em down to Sunny and look after'im alright?"

"Sure thing Doc." Said the lead patrolman, clapping Jack on the shoulder and leading him outside. Jack shaded his eyes against the harsh Mojave sun; he'd need to get his hands on one of those wide brimmed hats or a pair of shades.

"So stranger, welcome ta' Goodsprings. It ain't much, but it's a damned fine town, an' it ain't got no casino like Primm or the Strip, but its got good people." He laughed to himself.

"Damn hard to find these days, that. Names' James by the way. He gestured to the two other men they were with.

"That's Eamon and Haun."

"Jackson Derricks." He responded, sparing a glance about the town. It was rickety, almost run down but that stubborn spark of humanity kept it all together. There was a store, a few houses along with a curious shack. Further up the road he could make out the battered canopy of a gas station, but they turned down the road and began walking towards a building marked by big mismatched neon letters as the Prospector Saloon. As they slipped inside the Courier was thankful for the relief from the brutal sun. He needed to cover up; he could already feel his flesh tightening and baking beneath the unforgiving sol.

Trudy turned from behind the bar and almost dropped the glass she was holding. She knew it was him; Doc Mitchell's patient. Though it was dark and his face obscured by the thick gauze, she recognized his eyes, those twinkling cerulean orbs set with a hint of sadness.

"Hey Trudy, look who finally woke up!"

"I…see. Uh, hi. I'm Trudy. Welcome to Goodsprings stranger."

"Jackson Derricks. It's nice to see so many friendly faces." He said, his lips turning up at the corners into a smile. Trudy didn't know what to say. She wasn't sure what to expect from him; that blood spattered statue with the wrapped head seemed so at odds with the man that stood before her.

"Anyway, we're gonna get back to it. Take care Trudy. Mr. Jack." With that, James and company filed out of the bar.

"Sunny wants a word. Shes just around the corner there, just don't move too quick; it upsets Cheyenne." Jack blinked.

_What the hell is going on here?_ He rounded the corner and saw a young woman wearing leather armor seated on a pool table. He heard a scrabbling of claws on wood and looked down to see a wasteland dog settled before him, ears perked up and at attention.

"Cheyenne! Don't worry; she won't bite. Unless _I_ tell her to." Said Sunny as she slipped off of the pool table. The protrusion of a pistol was evident at her hip and a varmint rifle rested on the pool table.

She looked him over. He was tall, maybe about six-two, with tight corded muscle coating his frame. There was a…sadness about him; a tinge in his voice, the slight inclination of his head when he spoke.

"I…wanted to say thank you."

"Me? For what?" Sunny blinked. So…He didn't remember? She'd heard what Doc Mitchell and Trudy had said; this man had killed those Powder Gangers. She was thrown off.

"I'm..sorry. I can't…I mean I…I can't remember anything before waking up on Doc Mitchell's couch yesterday…"

"Oh..I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"Its alright. You didn't know. But what was it you wanted to thank me for?" Sunny bit her lip. She thought of that night, of the Powder Gangers. Of the cold, hard press of the Mojave sands against her bare skin. She shuddered and forced herself back to the moment.

"Its..nothing. Forget I said anything. I'm Sunny, by the way; Sunny Smiles. Me, Cheyenne, Jeremy and his kin are what passes for law in these parts. How are you feeling? Up to some practice?"

"Practice? Practice what?" Sunny cocked her head.

"Theres this robot-"

"Victor?" Jack interjected, an icy lump forming in his stomach.

"Yeah…How'd you know that?"

"Doc Mitchell…he told me that a robot paid him to take care of me."

"That so? He did the same thing to me and Trudy…Told us to take care of you until you left."

"Left for where?"

"He didn't say. Just, asked Trudy to take care of you and told me to make sure you still know how to handle yourself."

"Thanks…But who the hell is this robot, and what does he want with me?"

"Hell if I know. Victors never much helped anybody around her before so your guess is good as mine." Jack smiled then, a light, almost naïve thing and for a moment, the veil of sorrow lifted from him.

"So then, what did you have in mind?"

"Alright, this is a nine millimeter, nice, compact, not too much kick and pretty good armor penetration. So, show me what you can do, Mr. Derricks." Jack blew out a breath and picked up the pistol.

"Alright, pop off a few rounds so we can take a look at what we're working with." Jack nodded and set his feet, aiming down the pistol sights. He rattled off three rounds in quick succession, missing the bottles by a wide margin. Sunny was stunned; Doc Mitchell said the shots that killed those Powder Gangers were _precision work_. Clean kills, each one. But now the man couldn't shoot bottles at ten paces. Sunny shook her head and walked over.

"Okay, first spread your feet out a little more, and try to set your elbow for the kick. Don't be afraid to take your time; this is just practice."

He loosed several more rounds to similar effect, no targets hit.

"Wow. I guess we've got some work to do then." Jack gave a light laugh.

"I guess we do." Though he was smiling, as he set the handgun back on the picnic table his hands were trembling.


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: No Place For Heroes**

Cobb strode through camp with a scowl on his face. He was sick of waiting. It had been almost two weeks since Lou and four other of his men had run off into the night without warning and never returned. He cursed himself for talking with the stupid fuck in the first place, for doping up without telling anyone else of the plan. Now they were gone though, run off somewhere. If they were back at the Prison then he'd kill them personally when he got back. As it was, he was busy staking out the little town, having his men do quick sweeps of the perimeter before coming back; if Lou had gone and done what Cobb figured he had then it would explain the extra security the town had thrown up. In the end, the patrols were of little consequence; Cobb and his boys could handle a few farmers with .22s and old critter rifles. As it was though, he was finding a hard place to get inside the town without anyone noticing and bringing the rest of the people down on them . He was still hoping to get his hands on some poor fuck from town and get where Ringo was hiding outta them' but since the patrols started up that seemed unlikely. In truth, Cobb bore no ill will towards the people of Goodsprings; they were decent enough people just trying to survive out in the wastes like anyone else. But they had stuck their fuckin' noses in his business when they stashed Ringo somewhere. Ringo was going to die by his hand, and if the rest of Goodsprings was standing in front of him then so fuckin' be it.

All told, they still had about fifteen guys left and a decent amount of fire power; more than enough to handle Goodsprings if they had to. Cobb sighed and ran a hand over his scalp. The more he thought about fighting the townsfolk the more he kept picturing his own childhood, how the world had made him who he was. An orphan in a fucked up world with a little brother to care for and nothing to give shit whether he lived or died. As his scowl deepened, he decided that he would give them a choice.

She couldn't make heads or tails of him, this bizarre Courier. He was unlike most one would encounter in the wastelands; he was intelligent, soft as well as short spoken and in a certain light, when the faded scars criss-crossing his body and face seemed a little lighter…Sunny rolled her eyes. The man was next to useless; he couldn't handle a piece for shit. His survival skills were more than adequate; he could dig for water, harvest cactus fruit and had an extensive list of fire starting techniques. She supposed a Courier had to be able to take care of himself, but his lack of weapon skills was almost…disturbing. Maybe he had been one of those Follower of the Apocalypse types, but In the Mojave, you had to be able to shoot if you wanted to survive in your teens, let alone however old this man was: The Wasteland was no place for pacifist heroes. He'd been up and about for five days now, and he was almost graduated from Sunny Smiles Survival School. As it was, she had him out running patrols with her now; figured it might do him some good to practice with live targets and she had to admit, she did enjoy having someone other than just Cheyenne or James and his kin for company.

"Hows that armor fit you?"

"Good. It's a little tight in the chest but its good." Said Jack, as he tinkered with the straps on his leather armor.

"Don't fuss with it too much; if you screw up the straps we won't hear the end of it from Chet. " He dropped his hands and turned back to the trail. He had taken on some color from time in the sun making his scars stand out that much more, the one running beneath his eye in particular. There was something…different about him on the trail as opposed to at the bar or in their survival training. He moved like a predator even at rest as they were. His rifle was held in both hands tight to his chest, his walk was measured and sure footed and his whole body seemed ready to bolt into action at any moment. Icy cool in his gaze had melted away, replaced by a wary gaze that took in everything but gave away nothing. After a time they came upon a rock ledge overlooking Goodsprings water source, a towering form from the Pre-War, a rusted and battered but still functioning system of pumps and improvised filters. As the two gained the rise however, they stopped. A lone figure was standing by the pumps, smoking a cigarette. He wore a tattered old baseball cap, dirty blue shirt and jeans. Sunny thumbed the safety on her varmint rifle off and held her gun at hip level before pointing it in the stranger's direction. Glancing over, she saw that the nine millimeter she had given Jack had materialized in his hands and she watched with some confusion as he flicked off the safety and chambered around in quick succession. Something about it bothered her but she hadn't the time to think about it and instead trained her focus on the stranger who had put his hands in the air, palms out and begun walking towards them.

"'Scuse me." He called out, before turning his head up and allowing his face to be seen. It was Joe Cobb, grinning around the cigarette tucked in his lip.

"What the fuck?!" Sunny muttered, bringing her varmint rifle to shoulder and doing a quick sweep of the surrounding area. It looked clear. She saw that Jack had taken her cue and dropped into a crouch, training his sights on Cobb.

"Easy now, I'm just here to talk. No guns. No thugs. Just me, here, tryin' to talk ta' you."

"That's close enough." Sunny called back, setting her sights for the dead center of his chest. Cobb slowed but did not stop his approach.

"Like I said, all I wanna do here is talk."

"So talk." Sunny shot back.

"Nah, not here; that bar, the saloon. Take me there. You can bind my hands, blindfold me whatever, just take me there, let me say my piece and I'll be on my way. No shootin', no trouble. Just me, talkin' to you and yours." He was close now, maybe ten feet and she considered killing him where he stood. She smelled a trap but he seemed sincere. Something made her trust him, but when he was close she still stepped back and cracked him in the head with her rifle butte before searching him for weapons. He growled and shot a glare up at her but did nothing until her search was finished.

"You fuckin' happy now bitch?" He hissed before being hauled up back to his feet by Jack. He glanced at Sunny for a cue but at his hip, the pistol was pointed a sparse few inches from Cobb's kidneys .

Sunny's complexion went dour for a moment, considering before she spoke.

"Fine. But If I for a fuckin' moment think your up to somethin' you'll be dead before you fuckin' hit the ground you piece of shit." She said, pushing him abruptly with the butte of her rifle. He staggered forward, keeping his hands up and walking slowly.

"Y'know, you keep fuckin' with me and I might just walk my ass away. You don't want that. I'm here to give you fucking people a chance to keep your goddamn lives." With that, they fell silent. As they trekked into town some of the patrols had seen them and had fallen in, shouting jeers and spitting at Cobb who bore it in stoic silence. As they filed into the bar however, Sunny waved them off. As they entered, Trudy looked upon the strange procession with confusion at first and then rage as realization dawned on her. The .357 strapped to her thigh appeared in her hands and honed in on Cobb's chest.

"The fuck is _he _doin here?! Sunny, what the fuck is goin' on?!" Cobb held his hands up and sat down at the bar. Though the barrel of Trudy's revolver was almost pressed against his forehead he paid it no mind as he grabbed a nearby patron's glass and took a swig of the amber contents.

"Listen up. Whatever the fuck happened a week ago _was not me._ It wasn't me, and it wasn't why I'm here. Whatever those fuck-ups did I'm sorry for, I really fuckin' am. I don't wanna hurt you people. You're not causin' me trouble, just tryin' to make something of it. I respect that. But…Ringo? Him, I have a problem with. That fuck is going to die. I owe him a bullet in his fucking brain for killin' my little brother." Cobb felt the hot sting of tears welling in his eyes but did nothing to fight them down.

"He was only fourteen! Just a kid! And Ringo shot him dead on the road. That's…That's why I'm here. _That's _ what you people stuck your noses into. All I want, is Ringo. I know he's here so don't try to bullshit me. You give him up and we all just part ways, none the worse. You stay tight lipped, let him hide out here-" He said, taking a long draw from the glass.

"_And I'll burn this town to the ground with a fucking smile." _He said before killing the contents of his glass with an angry gulp. Cobb stood up abruptly and every gun in the saloon was trained on him in an instant.

"Two days. You have two days to turn Ringo out before me and my boys come and get him. Just tell him to step outside and walk down to the road. We'll see him." He set the glass down and walked to the door.

"Your whiskey tastes like shit by the way." Sunny stood before the door blocking his path for a moment, gun leveled at him before stepping out of the way. Cobb gave her a menacing glare which she returned before he slipped out the door. The clock above the bar read 7:45 and it was getting late. The settlers and farmers gathered around the bar as Sunny and Trudy began to speak in hushed tones.

"Shit, shit, shit. What the fuck do we do now?" Sunny said, fighting down the urge to go outside and shoot Cobb dead. Trudy set her revolver down on the table, poured herself a glass of scotch and slammed it down.

"We have no choice." She hissed.

"Ringo has to leave." The crowd clamored and Sunny found herself blindsided. They couldn't really just give Ringo up, could they? She gave a quick glance around the saloon and realized that someone was missing.

"Wait…Wheres Jack?"

Ringo tred softly through the desert sands and adjusted his grip on his .357. He wasn't sure what he was doing here, or what would happen in the next five minutes. But he was sure that it had to be done.

"You sure about this?" He whispered to the man taking lead.

"Yes." Came the icy cold retort .

"We need to scout the enemy and strike a blow; convince them that fucking with our people isn't worth it."

"We're goin' in a lil' light aren't we?"

"No. If this goes bad then everyone at Goodsprings won't get blamed for it; its just you and some stupid wannabe vigilante." Ringo had gotten a rough knock at the door and a hurried explanation of what was happening at the saloon. After that, it was an easy enough job of tailing Cobb back to his camp and waiting for night to fall.

"You up for this?" Ringo nodded.

"Yeah. But I gotta ask; why are you doing this?" The lead man laughed beneath his breath.

"Make me think too hard about it and I might just leave. Quiet, we're getting close now." Ringo heard the muted grinding of knife sliding from its sheathe and a glance found a blade glittering dangerously in the wane moonlight held tight in his back-up's hand. This was insane, but there really wasn't any other choice.

"Keep your piece down; no need to let them know we're here." Ringo set his safety to on and set the pistol in a hip holster before fishing out a switch blade. As they moved, Ringo could smell cigarette smoke and glance over to their right saw a man illuminated briefly by the flame of a lighter.

"Shit, I think I see one." Ringo whispered, but when he turned his head, he saw that the man travelling with him had vanished without a sound.

"Jack?"

As he crept through the desert sands, knife gleaming dangerously in his grip, Jackson Derricks felt nothing. No sorrow, no remorse, no anger, no guilt. He was in another time, another place. A place where his skin was bare and brown as a Brahmin's hide. His body was caked with mud and blood in ceremonial pattern. The knife in hand was not steel but sharpened stone. War with the neighboring tribes had broken out once more and it was time to defend his home. The man smoking the cigarette was distracted and blind in the thick Mojave night; easy prey. Jack crept up behind the man and clamped a hand about his mouth, darting the blade between his ribs several times before slitting his throat. He eased the bleeding man down to the ground before cleaning the blade on the fallen man's shirt. He glided through the darkness, a monster lurking in the shadows. The tents stood some thirty yards ahead as Jack ducked beneath a mesquite tree. As he looked up however, he saw the interlocking fronds of green, healthy bushes and felt the heat of the midday sun on his flesh. Off in the distance he could hear the blast of the tribe's battle horn. It filled him pride and anger as he sprang back to his feet. He was closing with the camp now, but Jack frowned as he saw a two man patrol walking his way. Dropping to the ground, he spread his limbs out and worked himself into the Mojave dust. The patrol stopped just a few feet from where he was splayed out as there was a ruckus of laughter from the men gathered about the campfire in the center of the tents and the patrol turned to gaze back at it for a moment.

Jack rose to his feet and began walking quickly towards the Powder Gangers. As his foot crunched down on loose gravel Jack launched off his back foot and brought the knife down in a swinging arc. The Powder Ganger gave a panicked shout before his voice was cut off by a macabre slicing sound followed by a morose gargling as he fought for air around his the blood pooling in his lungs. The knife's serrated edge had caught in the man's collar bone and stuck there and Jack felt the blade's pommel, slick with sweat slip from his hand as the Powder Ganger's body went limp and slumped to the ground. The second man growled and landed a heavy handed blow, toppling the would-be assassin to the ground. He pounced down upon him and threw his paw in a punch but the smaller man was quicker. He took hold of the big man's hand and twisted the wrist, bringing him down as Jack worked his right leg around his attacker's head, resting the man's cranium in the pit of his knee and forming a sideways 'L' as his other leg came down and torqued on his extended ankle. The form was flawless and as it locked in Jack squeezed as hard as he could, feeling the strength drain slowly from his victim as his thigh muscles crushed against his windpipe until the man went slack and collapsed entirely. Breathing heavy, the Courier picked himself up off the ground and retrieved his knife from the Powder Ganger's throat. The path to the camp was clear now. It was time to get to work.

From where he was huddled beneath the cover of some rocks, Ringo felt like a fool. The unlucky stooge in some shitty play. Odds were he was going to die tonight, and if not tonight then likely tomorrow or the next day. But he would meet his end on two feet with a gun in his hand. He had no regrets in his life; he'd lived the way he'd chosen and had to live by that. Cobb's brother had a gun on him, ready to fire. He'd had no other choice. That's what helped him sleep at night, at least. He felt antsy; he hadn't seen head nor hide of Jack after he'd seen him butcher the smoker. Then again, he hadn't heard any shouting or gunshots so it could go either way at this point. Ringo moved to rise; he felt exposed and he was getting tired of waiting around. As he did though, he heard the click of a hammer being cocked back before he felt a strong hand pulling his gun from its holster.

"Don't move." Hissed a voice from behind him. Ringo felt a hard push and began walking forward, towards the camp and the men gathered around the campfire. From what he could tell, Cobb wasn't among them. As they closed in, Ringo saw another two dead Powder Gangers, one with his throat torn open before he felt a the steel of a handgun collide with his temple.

"Keep walking." The voice grated. As they entered the ring of light projected by the campfire however, the Powder Gangers all jumped to their feet and snapped up guns and knives. There was a tense silence eventually broken by his captor.

"Is Mr. Cobb around?" The voice called, the cold press of the handgun's muzzle never wavering on Ringo's neck.

"He's sleepin." Called one of the Powder Ganger's warily.

"Well wake'im up." The voice called back, before Ringo felt a boot bury itself in the pit of his knee causing him to go down hard to the sand.

"He's gonna wanna deal with this guy in person." As Ringo gazed up he could scarcely believe his eyes. For there, standing above him silhouetted like a specter against the nightsky, pointing his own weapon dead at his head, was Jackson Derricks, those cerulean eyes frosty above a thin lipped grin.


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Blood for Blood **

Ringo could hardly believe what was happening as he fought his way back up to a sitting position.

"The fuck Jack?!" Ringo spat out before Jack planted a foot in his ribs.

"Nothin' personal Ringo." He said, digging about in his pockets for a moment before producing a cigarillo and a match which he lit on the chest piece of his armor. As he puffed away contentedly Cobb came stumbling groggily out of his tent.

"The fuck is it?" He mumbled, wiping the sleep from his eyes with the back of a hand. When his eyes opened however he found himself stunned. Lying on his back with the Courier's boot pinning his chest to the sand was the man he had been hunting.

"What in the fuck?" He said, walking up to get a closer look. He looked from the Courier to Ringo and back, at a loss for words until Jack spoke, puffing out a cloud of pungy smoke as he did so.

" Mr. Cobb. " He said, taking another long drag on his cigarillo.

"I have a proposition for you." Cobb crossed his arms.

"An' whats that?"

"Well, like you said at the bar, all you want is Ringo. Well, here he is. But I want somethin' in return." Cobb eyed the man warily; he didn't know what to make of this but he decided to hear the man out.

"What do you want?"

"Not much, just enough to get me on to the next town; A hundred caps, maybe some bullets… and I want in on the attack on Goodsprings." There hung a heavy silence in the air after he finished those last words and puffed on his cigarillo. Cobb laughed.

"I said I'd leave the town alone if I got Ringo."

"I know you did. But _they_ won't. Will you boys?" He said, gesturing to the gathered men. They glanced at each other, confused.

"Cobb, the fuck is he on about?" One called.

"What the fucks goin' on here?" Barked another. Cobb laughed, it started as a cold, bitter thing but grew until the man had to lean on his knees.

"You've got balls I'll give ya that…Never caught your name."

"Never gave it friend." Replied the Courier. One of the Powder Gangers lowered his weapon and walked up to Cobb.

"The fuck is this guy on about Joe? What about the _cash?!_" Cobb paid the man no mind and instead strode around the campfire, to where Ringo lay with the Courier's boot lodged in his ribs. As he approached, Jack lifted his foot and stepped back. Cobb nodded to the man and punted Ringo, sending him rolling through the sand.

"Dammit Cobb, don't you fuckin' walk away from me! We know you wanna kill'im for what happened but wait 'till he tells us where the _score_ is!" Ringo coughed around a shattered rib or two from where he lay in the sand before laughing weakly.

"Score? What fuckin' score? You assholes shot up my water shipment an' killed my fuckin' Brahmin; I ain't got shit." The Powder Gangers began roaring as Cobb dug into his waistband for the pistol tucked away within. He loosed a round into the air the shouting abruptly stopped.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP! He's lyin!" He said moving to center his sights on Ringo when he felt a strong tug turn him around.

"I dunno Cobb, he wasn't carryin' much when he took off…" Cobb turned away from Ringo and confronted him.

"What'chu tryin' to say?"

"I'm sayin' you told us there was a big payout." He shot back.

"THERE IS! Like I told you , the water supply was just a cover; this piece of shit's caravan was just a smokescreen, he's really carryin' an NCR payroll delivery, couple large in paper dollars. That's why he took off runnin'; didn't bother stayin' with his gear." The other man contemplated this before his eyes shot up over Cobb's shoulder. Cobb followed the man's gaze and saw that Ringo had begun wriggling his way off into the night.

"Where THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING?" He shouted, loosing several rounds at the prone man. Ringo tucked his head in and pulled his knees up, hearing the rounds tear holes into the desert inches from his head.

"COBB WAIT!" Called the Powder Gangers who surged forward to restrain the man.

"Not 'till he tells us where the money is!" Cobb relented and set the weapon into his waistband as several men rushed over to Ringo, stomping at him before hauling him back to the campfire. As Ringo gazed about the camp it dawned on him that he was probably going to die- and sooner than later he would probably be wishing that he had; he couldn't give the Powder Gangers what they wanted. As he gazed about though, he failed to see the treacherous Courier in the thronging forms. Cobb looked furious but for the moment he was subdued by his fellow Powder Gangers, however as they settled their eyes on him Ringo found himself almost wishing that Cobb would pull that gun back out of his waist line and get it over with.

"So, Ringo was it? Where the fuck is the money? I'm only gonna ask nicely once. After that, we gon' start with your toes. Tear off the nails, maybe chop a few off. Then, its your fingers. After that…well, nobody's ever lasted that long so I guess we'd just hafta' see."

"Fuck you." Was all Ringo replied as he struggled to an upright position. As the men clamored in around Ringo brandishing knives and pipes, Cobb fell back, once again brandishing his weapon. He moved to step forward when a cloud of smoke hit him in the eyes causing him to stop. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and for the second time that day the Courier pressed the point of his weapon against Cobb's back.

"You gave Goodsprings an offer. I'm going to return that courtesy. _Stay the fuck away from Goodsprings or you're a dead man._"

Cobb stood still as his men began ringing about Ringo, oblivious to what was going behind them.

"Whats your angle? You bring him here, try to get in the gang and then just what, turn around and kill me?"

"I had something you wanted so you let me get close. Your mistake. I'm only saying this once. Goodsprings is off limits. Whatever your problems with this man, they're between you and him. _Leave Goodsprings out of it. _Itsawful hard to get even when you're dead." Cobb started laughing then, a light thing that Jack cut short by jabbing the point of his knife up against the base of the man's spine.

"Fuck you man. One way or 'nother that town's getting hit. Prison's startin' to run outta supplies. Gotta get'em somewhere and Goodsprings? That's just the first stop. Doesn't matter what you do to me; that town is still gonna get fucked." Jack was silent for a moment, puffing on his cigarillo in quiet contemplation.

"That….is unfortunate. I'm….I'm sorry. I truly am." With that Cobb felt a hand clasp tight around his mouth as searing hot lances of pain erupted first in his lower back and several more times in his chest. But as he fell, the Courier held him, eased his descent and placed a hand gently over his eyes.

"Shhhh. Do not let your last thoughts in this life be of my face, of your death. Let them be of happier times…happier places." Though he knew not why, as he felt blood pool in his lungs and spattering from his mouth Cobb did as the Courier said. He thought of his brother. When they were young, before their parents had gone missing. Before Cobb had to join a raider gang to get enough money and food to get by. When life was simple, when he was loved and cared for. As a dark numbness swept over him, Cobb let it all go; all the hate, the frustration, the anger, it all flowed from him and as he slipped into sleep one final time, he felt a great weight lift as the burning flame of hate he had carried within since his brother's death was doused.

As he rose to stand over the fallen man, Jack spared a glance over his shoulder. Only a sparse few moments remained now as he looked back to see that the Powder Gangers had frozen while beating Ringo to stare in stunned awe at the Courier. Jack held the bloodied knife tight in hand and began approaching the prisoners at a leisurely saunter, almost casually wiping the blade on his pants before slipping it into the sheathe on the leather armor's chest piece. When he was but a sparse few feet from them, stopped and offered an indifferent shrug.

"Okay, so change of plans. Ringo an' me are leaving this shithole. This part's simple; you try to stop us, you die. Try to follow us, you die. Attack Goodsprings…" He said, pausing to take a long drag off his cigarillo before letting it fall from his lip into the sand.

"And you die _screaming_." He said, circling around to where Ringo lay. They circled in turn, weapons trained.

"An' what the fuck makes you think we're gon' do that?" A Powder Ganger shot back. Jack shrugged and dug into a pocket to retrieve to cotton wads that he proceeded to stuff into his ears.

"Well, I hadn't counted on you doin' much a'anything actually; smart man would probably be duckin' right about now!" Jack shouted back before throwing himself down into the Mojave sand and covering his head. The Powder Gangers whipped their heads around too late to see the angry orange flash and bang of their powder stock igniting. The pile was located a ways behind the camp but the blast was still more than enough to flatten the camp and level the grouped Powder Gangers. The Courier felt hot wind and rolling wave of force erupt over his head with a thunderous clap of fire and noise as he dug himself deeper into the sand. When the quake that shook the earth subsided, Jack fought to stand before staggering and thumping to the ground once more. He had tripped on something soft and heavy, and a quick glance showed that it was Ringo, hands clasped about his ears and struggling for clarity.

Jack forced his way back to his feet before digging his hands beneath Ringo's shoulders and hauling the man up to his feet. They ran for a time before Ringo grabbed the Courier and spun him around.

"C'mon, we gotta go!"

"What!?" Shouted Ringo, his ears still ringing with the blast.

"What!?" The Courier shouted, tugging the tufts of cotton out of his ears.

"Probably shoulda told you to cover your head or something. Guess it doesn't matter now." Jack said before he felt a fist thump into his jaw sending him toppling to the sand. Ringo fell atop him then, raining blows down and screaming around the ringing in his ears.

"What the fuck was that shit you fuckin' nut case!? You almost got me killed!" He roared landing an awkward jab and raining down more. But the Courier evaded the punches and covered up, fighting to bring his legs between him and Ringo. With his feet planted in the Caravaner's gut, Jack launched the man off of him and rolled onto his hands and knees, wiping at his bloodied lip with the back of his hand. Getting back to his feet, he saw Ringo had done the same and now had his hands up in a defensive position. Jack felt his head swim and black stars danced on the border of his vision as he felt an instinctive anger forming in his gut. His legs were jelly and the rest of his body felt about the same but the Courier paid it no mind as he closed with the other man, bouncing on the balls of his feet with his hands up in guard and facing out ward, palms open.

"Cobb had to be taken care of!" The Courier shouted, ducking a hook before responding with a kick behind Ringo's calf, causing him to open his guard a fraction for Jack to land quick left jab that snapped his head back.

"In case you didn't fucking notice _hes dead now, and that camp ain't exactly up and running._" Jack continued, eating a series of body blows before sending Ringo staggering as the edge of the Courier's elbow found his jaw.

"We had to send a message tonight; Goodsprings is not worth fucking with." He said as Ringo buried a looping hook into his ribs before following with an uppercut. Jack snapped his head out of the way of the sky hook and let his momentum carry, pivoting on his heel and whipping his arm out in a spinning backfist that Ringo narrowly managed to sidestep-only to feel the point of the Courier's boot lodge itself in his ribs.

"_I'd say we did a pretty damn good job_." Said Jack around gasps for air.

"Why did you do this!?" Ringo shouted, booting Jack in the ribs and sending him toppling to the ground. Jack felt another kick land and send him rolling through the dirt. Ringo loomed over him and glared down at the Courier. As he fought to his hands a knees, struggling for breath with his head hung low between his shoulders Jack felt hot tears rushing down his face.

"B…Because I'm a _monster…. I know _I've done terrible things….I can't remember anything about my life, but how to kill a man, how to handle a gun, where to cut with a knife to cause the most pain, to _kill_. How to tell when a person is lying under torture…the look in a mother's eye as her own daughter is sold before her eyes, _I still remember that. I see it. I…feel it._ I'm…_evil._I don't know why but I _know_ _I am_. …There are good people in Goodsprings. People that helped me…much the same as they helped you. They don't take from others to survive, they don't prey on the weak. They're just…surviving. Trying to make the best of it and things are already bad enough without some asshole raider gang trying to take all that away. It isn't my problem. A part of me says to just leave, get out of town while my hide is in one piece _but I can't_. _I won't._ I've done unspeakable things, I know I have. Whatever I was before I was shot was horrific…But I feel like I've been given a second chance…Like I'm still alive for a reason. I can _help_ these people, keep them safe, that's the least I owe them. I want _that_ to be my reason, my purpose….I'm a monster…at least I can be a monster with a mission. We've all got a purpose; grass grows, Cazadors fly and…I guess I kill people…" The Courier said with a bitter laugh. He rolled onto his back and stared up into the night sky. Ringo hovered above him glaring down at the Courier.

"Oh, right." Jack panted on the ground.

"Your ears are still burst aren't they?" He said rising back to his feet.

"I can't hear a damn word your sayin'! I think my eardrums burst!" Ringo shouted. Jack sighed and waved a hand in the direction of the town. As they walked though, the Courier spared a glance back in the direction of the Powder Ganger camp and though it was too far and dark to see the camp a black, inky smoke was rising over the blast site. It sent shivers down the Courier's spine as they walked back to town. It stirred something deep within the dark recesses of his battered psyche. Something primal. _Something hungry._ He had felt nothing as he butchered the perimeter guards and the lone sentry guarding the explosives, he was zen, a pond bright and still as a polished mirror. He had let go and felt a soothing numbness overcome him and as he whisked through the desert, once again a murderous phantasm of the Mojave, he felt as though he weren't in control of his actions but merely looking on through someone else's gaze. His memory was disjointed, fractured into two parallel scenes that would fade in and out, feeding into one another in a dazzling loop of shifting scenery and colors. One moment, he was gliding through the Mojave twilight, knife tight in hand and the next he was sprinting through a sun baked canyon dotted with lush greenery and exotic creatures. His memories were hazy and possessed an almost dreamlike quality in that there were gaps as the twin realities overlapped and faded. The Courier had not truly come back to his senses until he set the last blasting cap on the powder pile and went to finish up with Cobb.

But now, as he thought over his actions, the Courier was certain that he was a wicked man. For as he recalled the feel of the blade in hand as it glided through flesh and split open arteries, crushing a man's windpipe with his quadriceps he felt a grim ecstasy welling up in the depths of his body. His hair stood on end, the world seemed flush with brighter colors as his heart thundered away with the images flaring through his mind's eye. The Courier staggered to a halt and collapsed to his knees before he felt the burning in his stomach ascending and retched into the sand. He felt his hands tremble before he fought the sickness down and rose back to his feet. Ringo had kept on moving and was a fair ways ahead as Jack frowned and wiped at his lip with the back of his hand. He considered the consequences of their attack. If the Powder Gangers had any sense, they would take the hint and back the fuck off. And if they didn't then Goodsprings was certainly in for some hard times.

But Jack knew that they wouldn't relent. He knew that Cobb had spoken the truth before he died; that the Powder Gangers were desperate men. And desperate men were _always_ lacking of sense.

_No,_ Thought the Courier as he once more spared a glance over his shoulder in the direction of the smoldering Powder Ganger Camp.

_For desperate men, there is and will always be but one outcome; Blood for Blood._


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: Survivors**

"You can't be serious." Said Jack, setting his hands on the counter of Goodspring's General Store.

"Listen, this is _quality_ merchandise. If I just hand it out for free then I'll go broke. Now, _maybe_ we can work out some kind of…_crisis discount_…" Jack threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. He was running out of patience for Chet, the miserly bastard who ran the general store. He refused to budge and arm the populace for what the Courier was certain was the coming counter attack by the Powder Gangers.

"So Mr. Derricks, if you don't have anything to say or buy then I'd ask you to-" Chet was cut off as strong hands seized his shirt front and hauled the man half over the counter.

"Listen asshole," The Courier growled.

"What the fuck do you think is going to happen when the Powder Ganger's roll in? They'll just pay you for whatever they take and be on their merry-fuckin' way? If they come, and we don't have the gear we need _people are going to die. _This town will be nothin' more than a smoking crater when they get through with it, _and you're talkin' bout fucking discounts?!" _He said, shoving the shop keeper back. Chet had gone pale as the Courier barked in his face and as he thumped against the back wall he looked as though he were going to faint.

"Okay.." He stammered.

"I'll supply the locals, but so help me if any of it gets damaged or broken _you're paying for it!_" Jack crossed his arms and locked eyes with the man.

"Just make sure we have what we need, or you and I are going to have another 'chat'. And I'll be a lot less _amicable_ next time. Got me?"

"..Yeah."

"Good." With that Jack turned and strode out of the store and out into the sunbaked Mojave. That was one down. He already had Easy Pete on board and so long as his luck kept up Doc Mitchell and Trudy would follow suit. He decided to pay a visit to the good doctor first. He trekked through the hot sands of the Mojave, his mind racing. Truth be told he was exhausted; sleep was long in coming after Ringo and himself had returned. Jack found his thoughts drifting to Cobb's menacing words just before his life was snuffed out like a flame; _Doesn't matter what you do to me; either way that town is gonna get fucked. _Those same words rang through his thoughts still as he closed the distance remaining to the Doctor's house. He gained the steps quickly and rapped on the ramshackle door. The response was slow but soon enough the door swung open to admit the weary face of Doc Mitchell.

"Mornin' Jackie boy. What can I do you for?"

"Mornin' Doc. I need to talk to you about something." The doctor sighed and waved his former patient inside. They walked into the living room and the doctor settled on the couch Jack had spent the better part of a week in a coma upon. The doctor hefted his tea cup as Jack settled upon the wooden chair set across from the couch. The doctor smirked; it seemed so long ago that their places had been reversed.

"Had a feelin' this was comin'."

"Whats that?"

"By the way you've been runnin' around and Jeremy and his Kin been marchin' around gives me a feelin' somethin's 'bout to go down." Jack nodded and locked eyes with the older man.

"You'd be right. What did Ringo tell you about last night?"

"Not much; just that you two took care of Cobb and his people. That about right?"

"It's not that simple but yes. But the Powder Ganger's are coming. Make no mistake. Cobb told me the prison that his people live in is running out of supplies. They're going to hit the town regardless, and he told his people Ringo had some hidden stash of money." The Doctor said nothing and took a sip of his tea.

"Theres gonna be blood, Doc. People will get hurt and if we're not prepared those injuries become casualties. We need your help, supplies, whatever you can spare." The good doctor chuckled morbidly before downing his tea.

"Y'know, you remind me a lot of myself when I was your age. Son, let me tell you something. That first night you were here, that trouble? Some men came for Sunny and Miss Trudy. You'd gone and wandered off into the desert while I was dozin'. I don't know what happened, but Trudy stumbled across me when I was lookin' for you. Said she was attacked and that Sunny wasn't home. We found her, out in the desert, beat within an inch of her life an' naked as the day she was born. But the men, those Powder Ganger bastards, they were all dead. About five of'em, all clean shots.",

"And there you were, just sittin on some rocks. But, you had this gun, huge hand cannon. You were still a vegetable; still half dead but you _killed those men. _Six shots, six hits, five dead. You're a killer, Jack. In this fucked up world maybe that isn't such a bad thing. The fact of the matter is, you're a survivor; you're built to make it in this world, to do what you have to in order to stay alive. You ate a bullet to the head and lived long enough to get treated." The doctor set his tea cup down and dug beneath the sofa, dragging out a half empty bottle of dark amber whiskey. He took a long draw on the contents. Across the table, Jack's gaze had turned steely but he said nothing as the doctor nipped.

"But not everyone is. Not everyone is built to survive these days." He said, gazing out the window. The sun had risen to a point just below its zenith.

"Jack, understand something. You're stronger than most. It's what makes you fit for this world." He took a longer draw off the bottle.

"But…That's just the thing; the strong live on where others don't. Most don't make it to my age son, not out here anyway. Men like you and I do, we live on through our youths and into our winter years because we're strong. But being strong means seeing the people you love die. It means carrying the weight of their existence with you for the rest of your days. Their beliefs, their quirks, everything they were. Every day asking what could have been if you were just a little bit smarter, a little bit faster. And knowing deep down that _you couldn't protect them._ Strong as you were, in the end the only one you could save was yourself." He brought the bottle to his lips again. He laughed then, it was a quiet, bitter thing that held no warmth.

"I'll help you and the townspeople, Jack. When the Powder Gangers come you won't catch Doc Mitchell hiding under his bed; This old dog still has a few teeth." The two sat in silence for a time then, the doctor feeling a rush of heat in his cheeks as the sweet haze of intoxication swept over his senses.

"Thank you Doc." Jack said at long last. He rose then, the Courier and tipped his hat to the doctor before striding back out the ramshackle door. The Doctor watched him go, once more nipping at his bottle. After a time, he rose unsteadily to his feet and walked to a small end table, slipping open the top drawer. He withdrew his old Pip Boy 3000. A slight grin settled across his features as he turned the thing over in his hands. He had long since lost the need for the thing and in his old age the weight made his arm sore and his bones ache but it still held so many fond memories. He booted it up, once more running through the old notes and records he had. The maps littered with tiny blocks denoting locations, places of interest littering the expanse of the Mojave. Memories came on in rush, the travels and trials he had faced before coming to settle in Goodsprings. The good and bad, the ups and downs alike all came back to him and he set the thing down and powered it off before he was overwhelmed. He dipped a hand back inside the drawer and felt a thin layer of laminate. Just what he had been looking for. When his hand retracted, in his grip were several dusty photos. It was of a younger man, a happier man with a beautiful bright eyed woman on his arm. They smiling, holding one another close. It was their wedding day in the Vault. She was so beautiful that day, positively glowing. He thumbed through the photos, seeing them trotting through the desert, stopping in towns and tribal homes, healing the sick and teaching the people how to stay alive.

The final picture came up, and it was the two of them, older now. The house he sat in was little more than a burnt out shell being rebuilt in the background. He stood behind her, hands on her shoulders where she sat in her wheel chair, doing his best to smile. Even in her old age in the throes of sickness her smile was still just as pristine and beautiful as it was the day they married. He felt his hands begin to shake as hot, bitter tears spilled forth from his eyes. He set the photos down on the table with a wail of despair. Doc Mitchell wept then. He wept for his wife. He wept for the loss of his youth, for entering into the phase of life when it no longer gives but instead takes. He settled into the couch and cradled his head in his hands as he thought back to the better times and knew that they were well and truly over.

As Jack left the doctor's house, he found the morbid words ringing in his thoughts. _You're a survivor_. _You Couldn't protect them. _Something about those words chilled him to the bone. He strode through the desert and though the sun was beating down on his back he felt cold, empty. _You're a killer._ He didn't want to be a killer anymore. His hands were stained with more blood than he cared to think about. He couldn't tell what was worse, knowing that he was a murderer in whatever he was before he had woken up on the couch in Doc Mitchell's home, or knowing that no matter what he wanted, what he chose, he had to be killer now. It was the only choice in this world; to take life or to have yours taken. And the Courier hated it. He despised it with everything that he was even as he resented himself for taking part in it. He lamented his role in fate even as he carried it out. He supposed that was the kick in the head; the irony in despising what he was and what he did but having no power to change it. As he strode towards the Prospector Saloon Jack set those thoughts aside. Now was not a time to consider his lot in life but rather to fulfill it; another irony not lost on him. Stepping inside the bar Jack ran a hand over his mostly bald scalp down the narrow strip of hair that the Auto-Doc left him. He needed a hat, and some kind of coat would be nice for keeping the sun off his back; the leather armor was stuffy and hot in the direct sun. Once inside, the regulars glanced over at him some with indifferent gazes and others with nods but Jack was there to speak with Sunny and Trudy so he returned the nods and settled in at the bar.

"Morning Jack." Trudy said with a wry smile which Jack returned. He liked Trudy. He liked her smile, the fire he saw within those deep, chocolate eyes.

"Morning Miss Trudy. You got a minute?"

"I think so; things are pretty slow right now." She said setting down a glass she was cleaning and stepping out from behind the bar.

"Is Sunny here?"

"Yeah, her and Cheyenne are over by the pool table…Whats this about?"

"I think you know. Its about the Powder Gangers." Trudy fell silent and tried not to think about the man who had invaded her house and waited for her to come home the terrible night. They came across Sunny Smiles lounging atop the pool table, Cheyenne occupying herself with a neat pile of gecko bones.

"Jack, Trudy. What can I do you for?"

"Jackie boy here says he needs to talk to us. About the Powder Gangers." Sunny fought to keep her composure but still felt a flush of nausea from deep within the pit of her stomach.

"I've been going around getting people on board like we talked about Sunny. Doc Mitchell is on board and I had to twist his arm but Chet is willing to hand out supplies when we need'em. Now Trudy, I'm sorry we went behind your back on this but-" She raised a hand and cut him off.

"So you mean to tell you two have been getting the people in this lil' town riled up for a fight , and didn't even think to _talk to me first?_" Jack turned down his gaze and tried to think of something to say while Sunny spoke.

"Sorry Trudy but-"

"Don't be sorry. You're doing the right thing, I just wish you would've come to me first; I bet Chet would've fallen in line a little easier for one. I'll talk to Jeremy and his people, have them start getting a militia together."

"So its settled then; Goodsprings is going to war." Said Sunny, leaning in close. Jack couldn't help but feel a shiver as she said those words and once more he heard Doc Mitchell's foreboding words echoing through his thoughts. _You're a survivor. The strong live on where others don't. You couldn't protect them. _


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: Aftermath**

Ranger Jackson scowled and ran a hand over his short cropped hair before setting the wide brimmed hat atop his head. The day was going from bad to worse; that caravan bitch wouldn't stop harping at him about leaving, the highway was crawling with fucking mutated monsters, raiders, the Legion, fuck knew what else and atop all that now he had to deal with this shit. He strode down the hall in the back of the Mojave Outpost, his responsibility; his never ending list of problems. The men standing at lax attention outside of the Outpost's three beat to shit but nevertheless still functional prison cells. The men in their tattered khaki fatigues snapped hasty salutes which Jackson returned with a roll of his eyes behind the shaded sunglasses he wore and a tip of his hat; the rookies were always so damned formal.

"Whats the word private?"

"You asked to be notified when the prisoner said something."

"That I did. Did he say he's ready to talk?"

"Sort of. Just sat up and asked for water." The ranger eyed the prisoner through the bars with a look of repulsion mixed with amusement, his lip turned in a grimace at some sick joke known only to him. The prisoner sat on the edge of the cot set against the far corner of the cramped cell, eyes locked on the floor.

Jackson waved the two aside and slipped his key into the lock, swinging open the iron barred door before walking inside. As the door slammed shut behind him the prisoner looked up and locked eyes with the ranger's through his sunglasses, one an almost calming cerulean blue and the other blood red. The ranger found the gaze a touch unnerving but years of service in the NCR had turned him into a hardened veteran, and most recently a beleaguered bureaucrat and both had granted him nerves of steel along with an unflinching demeanor. He leaned back against the wall next to the door and folded his arms.

"Mornin' son."

"Mornin'." The prisoner returned in an indifferent tone.

"Got some manners at least. How you feelin' friend?"

"Good enough. My throat is killing me."

"Yeah, funny thing 'bout that." Said Jackson as he dug into a pocket to retrieve a dingy brass star.

"Stimpaks can repair the damage done by dehydration, sunpoisoning and all that, but your nerves still scream at your brain that your dying of thirst, that your skin is baking. It'll pass." He said, tossing the star over to the prisoner. The man snatched it out of the air, never breaking the lock he had on the ranger's eyes before glancing down to inspect the object. It was a faded, scratched and smudged Mojave Express Courier badge, reading 006 at the bottom. On the reverse it read a series of numbers along with instructions to return it to the nearest Mojave Express station or pick up box.

"Jackson Derricks. Shady Sands resident, former NCR private, 15th Infantry Battalion. Discharged on psychiatric recommendation due to trauma suffered during the Battle for Hoover Dam, awarded bronze Kodiak for bravery during combat. Relocated to Primm three years ago." Said the ranger, reading off the data pad that had appeared in his hands.

"Roughly at which time employment with the Mojave Express began. At some point, the paper trail this far east is shit, Order #0006845 was placed with the Mojave Express and Courier 007 –you- was dispatched with high clearance package for Divide station. Not long afterwards contact was lost with Divide station as outlined in incident report #0006845-ME. Should Jackson Derricks be found, apprehend for questioning." Jackson huffed around his handlebar 'stache. Somewhere deep in the murky depths of his mind the prisoner registered the facial hair with something terrible, a grim acceptance. Would you get it over with?

Silence hung heavy over the room as the ranger looked from the data pad in his hand to the man seated before him. After a moment, he retrieved a pack of pre-war cigarettes from his shirt pocket. Popping one in his mouth, he thought for a moment before extending the pack to the prisoner. The Courier looked wary but accepted the smoke. The ranger lit up and extended the light to the end of his prisoner's cigarette. They puffed in silence for a moment before the ranger spoke.

"File says to hold you for questioning so, what do you know about Divide Station?" Jack couldn't help but bark a laugh, a curt, bitter thing that held no warmth.

"Afraid I can't help you there," The Courier responded, taking a long draw on his bogey.

"I got shot in the head on a delivery a few weeks ago outside of Goodsprings. Doctor managed to patch me up but…I don't remember anything before waking up there." The Ranger regarded the Courier with an indifferent gaze before shrugging his shoulders.

"Suppose I'll have to take your word for it; the brass is seeing spies everywhere out here now and my P.O.I. list is crammed full of folks just caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Besides, we've got bigger things to talk about." He said, snubbing his cigarette out on the crumbling concrete wall of the cell. The Ranger tapped the bars and called out to the men on watch.

"One of you go get his 'package'. Its sitting on my desk, can't miss it." As a private snapped off to follow the orders the Ranger stepped forward so he could get a better look at his prisoner. The scars told stories, and he bore them in droves, faded lines criss-crossing the edge of his cheeks, running below his left eye, the calming azure set beside the angry red.

"So, you said you got shot huh?"

"That's right. I was shot in the head, robbed and then dropped in a hole."

"That why you and your friends went to the prison?" The Courier broke away from the Rangers gaze and hung his head low.

"No."

"So then, Mr. Derricks, you mind explaining to me why you and the rest of those people hauled off and declared war on that prison?"

The Courier hung his head low and sat in silence for a moment. When he did speak, it was a hoarse, fragile thing.

"It's a long story."

"So start at the beginning." A chill ran the length of the Courier's spine as he thought back to the events that had brought him to that damned prison.

I wasn't strong enough….

The scuff of boots and the sound of tumblers clicking open announced that the guard had returned with the Ranger's request. It was simple burlap wrap stained with crimson blotches in places.

"And this…Shit man, I don't even know what to make a' this." Said the Ranger as the rookie set the package down on the floor and undid the knot holding it together. As the folds unwrapped, Jack couldn't help but feel a sinister grin turn the edge of his lips up.

So small for, such a big guy. For laying there on the stained burlap wrap in the center of the prison was the pale white, shriveled and under-endowed cock of Lou Eriks.


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: Ghost-Town Gunfight **

_It was just another day. Started like any other. The town was on full guard but the Powder Gangers never came. Days passed in silence. The guards became lax, people returned to their crops, families and lives. And…There was something else distracting the sheriff that morning._

Jackson Derricks rolled over onto his side and felt the soft, warm press of the body next to him. He slid in closer to her, slipping his arm over her midsection and pulled her into him, wrapping his thick, sun-baked arms about her slender frame. She turned her head up over the auburn locks splayed on the pillows to kiss him lightly on the lips.

"Mornin'." She said with a smile.

"Mornin' Sunny." He replied with a smile of his own, resting his chin on her head. He slid up against her and felt the touch of her bare skin against his. He kissed her neck and she giggled as she felt his hands move up to cup her breasts.

"Ready for round 2?" He murmured into her. Sunny replied with a giggle and sat up abruptly.

"Mmm, sounds fun lover boy, but don't you need to go see Doc Mitchell about somethin'?"

"Yeah, but I think it can wait." He said, kissing her neck gently.

"Even so its high time I went out on patrol; can't leave everything to Jeremy and his kin."

She sat up and began to dress as Jackson Derricks loosed a sigh and sat up in her bed, stretching his back and doing his best to ignore the scratches on his back. He fumbled about for his clothes and after a moment he found them, balled up on the ground beside the bed. As he pulled his rough frayed jeans on a glance showed that Sunny had already donned her leather armor and had her varmint rifle in hand.

"I'll see you at the saloon later?" He asked, tugging a khaki t-shirt over his head. She smiled, a light delicate thing.

"Of course." He smiled back and watched after her as she walked out of the room. Running a hand over the short cropped hair that had grown in around the Mohawk he set about lacing up his boots. Fully dressed, he made his way out of Sunny's house and out into the hot Mojave sun, setting out on a leisurely clip over to Doc Mitchell's home. He stopped to wave and chat up a few of the locals who had begun warming up to his presence.

_I met with the Doctor then, to get checked out again…_

Jack sat down on the operating table in the doctor's triage room, under the glaring fluorescent lights and the ominous loom of the Auto-Doc.

"Alright Jack," Said the Doctor as his fingers flew over the Auto-Doc's controls.

"Just lay back and relax, the diagnostic should only take a sec'." Jackson Derricks closed his eyes, took a deep breath and tried to calm himself as the machine whirred to life and began spitting out info to the monitor.

"Alright, so far everything looks good…The damage healed up nicely and I'm seeing more activity from the memory centers of the brain, seems like those treatments are startin' to take hold. If all goes well, you might actually get your memories back." This sent chills down the Courier's spine as he did his best to ignore the sweeping arms prodding and poking at his scalp. In a hoarse whisper heard only to him as the machine's whirring grew louder Jack spoke.

"But what if I don't want them back?" The Doctor continued on, oblivious to his patient's plea.

"Alright, almost done. Just need'ya' to roll over and we'll be finished in no time." Jack obliged and the machine once again started with its prodding. Suddenly though, the whirring reached a fever pitch and the dermal laser extended out from the arm.

"What the hell?" The doctor murmured, trying to figure out what was happening as the laser flared to life and fired down at his patient's back, just below the nape of his neck. Jack cried out in pain and gripped the table tightly.

"What the fuck Doc?!" He shouted.

"I dunno, it just started up! Piece of shit!" The Doctor shot back, trying desperately to halt the machine's operations. But then it abruptly stopped, the arm retracted and Jack heaved a sigh of relief.

"Jesus, I'm sorry Jack I don't know what the hell it started…" Then the Doctor caught sight of the patch of skin the laser had just begun work on. It had peeled back a large patch of scar tissue, replacing it with healthy flesh. But the new flesh formed an image; a crudely drawn foot with dots for toes. Flecks of black dotted the flesh and the Doctor wracked his brain for what it could mean.

"What the hell? That's some pretty serious damage there, no wonder the Auto-Doc kicked in. Looks like…I dunno, some kinda foot. Judgin' by the scar tissue it looked like somethin' sharp was used to just tear it the fuck off. That mean anything to you?"

"Hell no." Jack said with a growl, pushing himself up off the table.

"Well either way looks like you're more or less healed up. Really Jack, I have no idea what happened there, one minute its basic triage and then..." He spared a guilty glance at the dermal laser and back at his patient. But when he met eyes with the man, he saw that one of his eyes had a slight discoloration at the upper corner of the coloring; a sliver of crimson had crept in.

"Dammit. Looks like the re-coloring didn't take so smooth. Well, we'll handle that once I've gotten a chance to tinker with that piece a' shit. "

"Yeah…" Jack said apprehensively, doubting that he would volunteer for another run beneath the Auto-Doc.

"So, whatcha' gettin' into for the day?"

"Not too much, just gonna go make my rounds."

"You're startin' to become a pretty familiar face 'round here."

"I like to do my part." Said the Courier, tugging his jeans up around his ankles. The doctor chuckled around his moustache.

"If I didn't know better I'd say you were thinkin' bout stayin'." Jack contemplated the doctor's words for a moment before responding.

"And if I was?"

"I wouldn't mind a bit. I know Sunny's been sleepin' a bit easier since you came to." Jack laughed at the doctor's reply and tugged his shirt on. There came a brief silence as the Courier dressed and the doctor stoically analyzed the code streaming forth from the Auto-Doc's console.

"…So you really haven't given much thought to chasin' after those men? The ones who went an' put that bullet in your head?" Jack paused.

"Honestly Doc, I have. And I don't much care." The doctor paused in his decoding to look his patient in the eyes.

"Really now?"

"Really. Way I see it, I've been given a second chance, a fresh start. Not many men can say the same. And… I like it here. It's quiet. Peaceful. For the most part anyway." Doc Mitchell shrugged and turned back to his work.

"Maybe you'll feel different once those memories start comin' back." The Courier turned his head down at that and merely focused on getting his boots laced up. The doctor turned to say something when outside the crackle of gunfire erupted. The two froze and glanced up at each other, each thinking the same thing but knowing the worst. Maybe a Gecko wandered too close to town. Maybe a local holstered their gun too quick. But in their hearts, they knew the truth. As they rushed out into the living room, Doc Mitchell grabbing for his shotgun, Jack running for the cupboard that the doctor called out for him to do, they knew. The Powder Gangers, at long last, had come. As the cupboard flung open, for the first time since his awakening Jack laid eyes on the heavy Mateba. Even as he reached for it, he felt chills running down his spine. As his fingers deftly loaded the empty cylinders, the Courier noted that thing felt good in his hand, felt natural. He thought back to when he had taken the lives of the Powder Gangers outside their camp, to when the knife in his hand punched through the ribs and arteries of Joe Cobb. He felt sick as he set the loaded cylinder back in place and thumbed off the safety, appalled at how right it felt to hold a gun in hand.

_You're a killer Jack,_ rang the cryptic words of the doctor through his head for the thousandth time.

"Jack, there's something I want you to have. In the top shelf, behind that gun, my old Pip-Boy. It'll do you a helluva lot more good than me at this point." Jack reached into the dark recesses of the cupboard and upon finding the thing hauled it out.

"Here, I'll help you get it set. Takes a minute to get it on but once it is it's yours. I mean it. Not like its an easy task gettin' the damned thing off anyway." The Courier looked on with apprehension as the Doctor set about clamping it to his wrist and getting the bio-locks engaged, but before long the screen flared to life as he felt the health monitoring prongs shoot into his veins and blood-stream. He grunted as he felt them adjust before settling.

"You'll get used to it." Was all the doctor said before thrusting a box of .45 ammunition into his hands and beckoning to the door. With reluctance the Courier followed as Doc Mitchell walked out into the blinding sun of the Mojave. The two fell into a crouch and moved cautiously; the gunfire had picked up in tempo , the sound of returned fire lost as the two sides opened up on each other. The main road was clear but from where they were Jack could make out the settlers huddled up against make-shift cover firing at the approaching band of Powder-Gangers. His heart sank as the Courier acknowledged their blue-clad assailants hunkered down behind the scattered rock formations outside of town, popping up occasionally to take shots at the townsfolk.

As they fell in beside Sunny's house Jack did his best not to think of her.

_She's alright,_ he told himself, _she knows how to handle herself._ But that did little to assuage his fears as the doctor laid out a plan.

"I need to get to the wounded, cover me while I move up to where everyone's and I'll make sure everyone returns the favor. You ready?" Without waiting for a response Doc Mitchell pushed forward, snapping off a shot from his break-action before bolting for where the defenders were holed up beside the Saloon. Jack whirled out behind him, snapping off a few shots in the general direction of the Powder Gangers, not sighting an individual target. As Doc Mitchell fell in behind the bar he released a held breath before tapping several of the settlers on the shoulder.

"Get ready; Jack's gonna be movin' up in a second." But back behind Sunny's house Jack was pressed up against the siding, a cold sweat breaking on his features. _You can do this_, he told himself. As the cacophony of gunfire increased he whirled around the corner and ran as hard as he could in a crouch, diving for the encampment when he finally came in reach. As his shoulder came in contact with the hard wood of the saloon he released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The Doctor tapped him on the shoulder.

"I need to get to the wounded!" He shouted over the din, pausing briefly to exchange the spent cartridge in his shotgun.

"Keep an eye out and make sure they don't try to come around the side!" And with that, the doctor was off, hauling the wounded men to safety behind the cover of the Saloon and administering stimpaks and med-x. Jack froze up there, huddled against the side of the bar with the settlers. There were only three or four of the town's defenders still up and returning fire; the rest had been hit and were waiting for the attention of Doc Mitchell. Jeremy, a familiar face grabbed his shoulder and shook him.

"C'mon Ghost Man, WE NEED YOU! SNAP OUT OF IT!" Jack nodded weakly but he had gone pale as a sheet as the bullets rained overhead, embedding themselves in the Saloon and buildings beyond. He opened the cylinder and took a quick glance at how many rounds he had left. Only three. With a shout Jeremy sent him to the other side of the Saloon on shaky legs to ensure that the Powder Gangers weren't flanking. Jack stood there, pressed up against the edge of the Saloon, eyes primed for any oncoming Powder Gangers. But could he shoot them if he had to? Could he force his hands to do the deed? He hoped he wouldn't have to find out. But fate had other plans in store for the Courier.

A settler came along the outside, on Jack's side of the Saloon, looking to move up to get a better shot on their assailants. A Powder Ganger came rushing along the outside, 10 mm SMG raised and spraying as he rounded the corner. The Settler went down with a shout but not before he could return a shot, planting a bullet square in the ex-con's chest. Jack felt an icy lump of guilt knotting up in his stomach; he could've taken the shot, saved the man's life but hadn't. He was coward. And now, a man was dead because of it. Jack hissed as the knot in his stomach turned to nausea when the downed settler loosed a cry. Feeling the knot abate some, the Courier shot around the corner of the Saloon, Mateba held high for no other reason than instinct and a quick glance showed that the Powder Ganger was lying still in the sand. Kneeling down beside the bleeding settler, he checked the man's pulse. Erratic and fading but still there at least. The Doctor was at his side in a flash, medical bag held tight in grasp.

"Shit, only two stimpaks left. One should be all I need to get Jericho here stabilized, just watch my back." Jack nodded and kept an eye primed for the opposite side of the Saloon, still unsure of himself. Doc Mitchell prepped the Stimpak and plunged it into the bleeding man whose eyes flared open with a gasp before the stimpak's effects took hold. Jack glanced over at the man as the wounds in his chest knitted shut slowly, forcing the bullets out before closing entirely. When he turned back to his post however, time slowed to a crawl. The downed Powder Ganger had forced himself up to a sitting position, legs splayed out and SMG tight in hand, aimed dead at the grouped men.

The Mateba was up and sighted in in an instant but still he hesitated, his finger lingering on the trigger but lacking the will to pull. He saw the flash first before the roar of automatic gunfire, the SMG's muzzle spitting fire in unison with bullets. In the same instant, the Powder Ganger's head exploded in a fine red paste as the heavy .45 round punched through his skull but even before he felt the pain and the hot flow of blood beneath his clothes the Courier knew he had been hit more than once. The pain, hot and blinding came roaring into his senses and he groaned as he collapsed backwards into the hot sand. Breath came in short, pained bursts and as he coughed up blood Jack knew he was a dead man; his lungs had been shredded by the SMG fire and now blood was pooling up, choking him with his own bodily fluids. He glanced over to see that Doc Mitchell had been peppered by the gun fire as well, multiple blood stains and tears evident in his simple rancher clothes. A hazy ring of darkness had encroached upon his vision as the Courier loosed a bitter, bloodied laugh as he felt his life draining out into the Mojave sand. Doc Mitchell fumbled with his bag and retrieved the last remaining Stimpak.

"Well now," Said the doctor around fits of coughing, "Isn't this a fine kettle 'a fish." He said with chuckle that devolved into a series of coughs. The Doctor dragged himself over to where the Courier lay and began prepping the stimpak before Jack raised a shaky, bloodied hand.

"No Doc…These people need you a helluva lot more than they need me." The Doctor eyed the Courier with a familiar fire in his eyes.

"Dammit Jack, this is no time to be a fuckin' hero, now shut the fuck up and lie still." The Courier coughed again but raised a hand and gripped the Doctor's wrist with a surprising strength.

"No Doc, you listen to me; theres gonna be more wounded, more people who need you." The fire went out of the Doctor's eyes as he retracted his hand and the Stimpak.

"You sure 'bout that Jackie boy?"

"Positive. This world has too many bad men in it and too few good ones. And me," He paused, coughing up more blood into his hand, "I know I'm a bad man Doc. I see it in my dreams, the faces, always screaming, always dying. Whatever I was before I wound up on that table was something awful. Maybe this is my retribution, my comeuppance. And y'know what? I'm fine with that. We all gotta pay our dues sometime Doc." A glance showed the Doctor laying back and prepping the stimpak and opening up his shirt. Jackson Derricks let his eyes slip, giving himself over to the darkness. Peace, maybe not the one he had been looking for, but the one he found nonetheless. The Courier felt himself slipping away before a sharp puncture in his chest snapped his eyes open to the reveal the stimpak, held tight in Doc Mitchell's aged hand sticking out of his chest.

"You're a real poet Jack. But you're wrong. I don't know who or what you were before Victor brought you into my house bleedin' out your head, but _it doesn't matter_; I know who you are now, and what you are now is a _good man_. You said it yourself; you've been given a second chance, a chance to right those wrongs. I'll be damned if I'll let you throw that away for an old dog like me and besides; maybe I'm just an old codger bleeding out but something tells me you're meant for bigger things than dying out here."

"Dammit D-" Was all the Courier could get out before he felt an ice cold chill seize his chest and violent convulsions rocked his body, his flesh forcing the lead out before tightening together, stopping the bleeding. As his body's thrashing stopped, the Courier ran a hand down the newly healed wounds and took a deep breath with mended lungs. It was wet with blood but the flesh was fine, not so much as a scratch.

"Damn you Doc." Said the Courier, pushing his way back up to his feet. He cradled the doctor's head in his hands, gazing down at the dying man.

"Get goin' dammit. I'll be fine. You're more good to the town than me right now so get your ass in gear!" The Doctor said around several more wet coughs. Jack rose on numb legs, unsure of what to say so he turned his back and hastily began exchanging the spent rounds in the heavy Mateba before trotting over to where the dead Powder Ganger lay and snatching up his weapon and the two spare clips he carried. Doc Mitchell watched Jack go until the man rounded the corner of the Saloon. When the man left his sight, he heaved a heavy sigh and settled onto his back. He stared off towards the horizon, looking for the sunrise, but it was high noon and the sun stood at its zenith. A slight smile crossed his features as the doctor closed his eyes for the last time. He thought of the day he and was wife had first met, at the G.O.A.T. graduation dance in the vault. She had been so beautiful then.

"I'm comin' Michelle…"

As the Courier rounded the corner of the Saloon, he did not think, he did not feel. He was an automaton as he stepped out of the shade and into full view of the oncoming Powder Gangers. The Mateba rose, clenched in his right hand. It was no longer a weapon, no longer a separate entity but an extension of self. He sighted in on his first target and loosed a round. He cocked his elbow to absorb the blow as the bullet exited the barrel and took off the Powder Ganger's head in a spray of gore. The gun's kick was immense, but the Courier used the jump to bring his aim to the next target, another bang, another kill. Several scrambled to take aim as the Courier's left hand brought up the 10mm SMG and loosed a spray of bullets, inaccurate, but enough to send the ex-cons scrambling for what little cover there was. Two tried to charge the settlers and were cut down in a hail of rifle and shotgun fire.

That left three, caught out in the open as the Courier discarded the SMG, bringing up his now free hand to the Mateba's pommel, careful to keep his thumb clear of the cylinder as he sighted in. The Settlers had rallied and began to make a push for the stunned ex-cons who now found themselves on the losing side of the battle. As they cleared the encampment however, the Powder Gangers leapt up from behind the battered make-shift fortifications, sighting down the barrels of their automatics and preparing to mow down the oncoming people of Goodsprings. In the split second before the ex-cons could unleash fiery death however, three loud bangs roared out, each punctuated by a blood curdling _splat_ accompanied by the heads of the Powder Gangers exploding outward in a splash of gore. In an instant, it was over, the Powder gangers laying dead where they had stood, weapons still clutched tight in their grasp. The settlers and farmers stood frozen, fully expecting to die before their senses returned and they glanced over to where the shots had come from.

Standing there was the Courier, hands outstretched in aiming posture, smoke gushing from the Mateba's barrel. The Settlers looked on an awe as the man who just a few weeks ago could barely shoot straight had killed five men in the span of less than a minute with perfect accuracy. Trudy had set up a makeshift field hospital within the Saloon, and hunkered down behind the bar, revolver held tight in hand waiting for the first Powder Ganger dumb enough to poke his head through the door. Instead, it swung open to admit Jeremy, hauling a wounded man in with him trailed by the remaining settlers.

"Jesus Jeremy! I almost took your damn head off!"

"Sorry Miss Trudy, but we needed to get Paul here and the others inside before they got much worse." Trudy ran over and helped them haul the wounded over to the cots and bed rolls laid out throughout the bar. The question on the tip of her tongue begged to be asked but she was afraid of the answer so she simply set to tending to the wounded until the law keeper assuaged her worries.

"We won Miss Trudy…We lost some good men today, but dammit, we won. Those Powder Gangers ain't comin' back in no hurry, not after today." He said, running a hand across his sweat heavy brow. Trudy glanced around, taking count of the faces before turning back to Jeremy.

"Where's Doc Mitchell?" The men turned down their faces at her question and she swallowed hard.

"God dammit…" Was all the women could mutter before the cries of the wounded brought her back out of her thoughts and forced her to begin triage. Without the Doctor, things were going to get hard around Goodsprings.

Outside, on the other side of the Saloon, Jackson Derricks knelt down beside the prostrate body of the Doctor. The man who had saved his life twice now. How ironic that the second time should come at the cost of his own.

"I'm sorry Doc…I could've stopped him….Coulda killed'im before he even took the first shot but…" The words died in his throat as he regarded the man lying before him in the sand. Jack sat down roughly into the sand beside the body and ran a hand over his features.

"I've been thinking about what you said before…About me being meant for something bigger. I killed those men Doc, those Powder Gangers. It happened so fast but…I just did it. No thought, no consideration, just aim and shoot. Is it supposed to be that easy? Is it for anyone else? I don't know…But what I do know is that I protected those people, the settlers and farmers who came together. They were going to die-but I stopped it, killed the Powder Gangers before they could get a shot off. _And it felt good._ The more I think about it, the more I'm forced to believe that you were right when you said there are bigger things waiting for me. Maybe that's why I'm here; to do what others can't, to protect the weak from the strong. It sounds like bullshit when I say it out loud but…it just feels right. Feels like I have a purpose. _A reason._ Before today, I could care less if I lived or died. In truth, I was waiting for it, almost _looking _for it. Just some kind of release from what I'd done. But now, I don't want to die. I want to live, not for myself, but for others. For the people forced to live in fear, in pain because of those who won't leave them be. That's not the man I was…But it's the man I want to be, the man I want to be remembered as. Thank you for giving me that chance Doc, for letting me become something else." The Courier rose then, hand on the hilt of his Mateba where it rested in its holster. He strode towards the Saloon and slipped inside without a word. The settlers looked up at him as he walked by with kindred eyes as he sat himself down upon a bar stool and ran a hand through the thin strip of hair that remained. Trudy rounded the corner and walked over to the Courier.

"Wait, you're here? I thought you were out with Sunny!"

"What? No, I was with…I was with Doc when…we got hit. He. He spared his last stimpak for me, instead of himself…" Trudy spun around to address the rest of the settlers.

"Has anybody seen Sunny? At all?" There came a silence that was shattered as a man came stumbling through the door, blood evident in his clothes with a hand clenched over his midsection. He collapsed onto the floor in a heap as Cheyenne rushed in after him.

Trudy and the others thronged about him, recognizing the man as Peter Jenkins, a farmer. As they set about tearing his clothes open to find the wound he waved them off.

"Don'…Don't worry about me…Sunny…They ambushed us on the trail by the Source…Three of'em …A big bald one and two others…Got one of'em but they shot me…Left me for dead and…They took'er. Took Sunny and run off." Jack felt chills run down his spine as his newly mended mind spat out images of the night he had come across the grim procession in the desert. Trudy stood stunned and felt hot tears welling in the corners of her eyes.

"Oh god no..Not again.." The sound of the door swinging open once more caused her to wheel around. She saw the Jack letting himself out into the desert.

"Where are you going?" She said in a hoarse whisper. The Courier turned to face her and when he did she felt goose flesh break out on the backs of her arms and neck; his gaze was steely and frosty, but across from the pale blue of his left eye, the right had been replaced in its upper right quarter with a blood red.

"I'm going to get her back." And with that, the Mojave Express Courier slipped back out into the desert, Cheyenne close at heel.


End file.
